


steal me and shield me

by venomedveins



Series: of magic & monsters [7]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gore, Graphic Canoncial Level of Violence, Healing, M/M, Magic, Mpreg, Murder, Smut, mentions of past relationships - Freeform, powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron and Nasir are in a race against time as the Wolf Festival approaches and Gerulf's plan begins to be revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	steal me and shield me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for everyone who waited for this! I am sorry that life has been so shitty to me lately and I've had to push my writing aside for a tiny bit. I'm back though and hopefully will be updating more regularly. 
> 
> As always, thank you to my lovely beta - habibinasir. She is also writing some fic, so make sure to keep an eye out and give her lots of encouragement.

Nasir's grin drops slowly, each second seeming to stretch as his cheeks relax and his breath stops. He can't look away, captivated as Agron's bones unfold, hair erupting along his arms, teeth glinting with spit as they grow past his lips. Every crack of his bones and the terrible way Agron's skin splits erases the man that he once was, pulling him towards the ground. It's grotesque and horrible, and yet awe inspiring when Agron lets out his terrible growl standing there in full form.

Eyes widening as he takes in the wolf, Nasir feels a kind of quickening his chest – a thrumming of excitement at it – the danger and terror fueling something else entirely. Massive paws with nails curling down into the loose dirt of the tent, head seeming to raise nearly above Nasir’s own, Agron’s muzzle is as long as Nasir’s forearm. Agron’s teeth gleam with spit, fangs sharp and curved upwards. He is the beast, the only recognizable feature – his eyes that glow brightly – unforgiving and enraged. 

“Move you fucking shit!” Nasir hisses, stepping roughly around Castus, bumping into his shoulder. The motion causes Nasir to stagger a little, Agron letting out a short growl, pawing the earth, before the prince rights himself and settles between the two men. 

“Agron,” Nasir’s voice is a plea, knowing that if Agron decides to move forward there is no stopping him. “He causes offense, but he does not realize it. Cast it from thoughts and know that I am here and safe and yours.” 

Agron’s wolf cocks his head, glances between his husband and the terrified man behind him. Castus’ mouth hangs open, hand half raised to a dagger but then left. His horror is fitting, staring at a monster who does not hesitate, and only lingers because his family is thrust between. But it melts away the longer Agron lingers there, and Castus makes the mistake of taking his eyes off Agron to glance at Nasir. 

“It is not safe, Nasir. See reason. You cannot expect to get the bite and the love from this…” Castus struggles over the word, seeming to finally expel it from his throat, “this dog!”

“Leave.” Nasir snaps, trusting Agron at his back as he turns towards the pirate, mouth in a thin line, “Just get out of my fucking sight.”

“Nasir-“ Castus does not finish as Nasir’s fingertips fill with fire, glowing an eerie red in the dim lighting. 

“It is not just the wolf that you should fear.” Nasir hisses, pointing to the now vacant doorway. 

Castus moves out, glancing back once at Pietros as if the other man will somehow agree with him – take sides. Instead, Pietros turns his head away, fiddling with a random scarf to hide his smirk. He feels that perhaps he should have warned Castus, of what happens when the couple gets together – the territorial behavior only enhanced as they get closer to the wolf’s moon. 

"Agron," Nasir struggles to kneel, holding his waist with one hand and one of Agron’s massive shoulders with the other. Pietros moves to help him, but Nasir gently shakes his head, motioning towards the door to let Pietros leave. He is sure that the other man has more interesting things to do. 

_“Don't be angry with me. A lot has happened.”_ Nasir lets the magic flow between them, speaking silently as he rest his head against the soft fluff of Agron’s chest. Kneeling like this, Agron still stands taller than Nasir, regal and proud with the same green eyes, only maximized. _“We must be careful now. Everything we do puts us in danger. You’ve come home to a war here too.”_

Agron nudges his nose against Nasir's shoulder, nuzzling into his chest, laps gently at the soft curve of Nasir's waistline. He makes a soft noise, not quite a whine but something close, staying near as his own voice comes through. It’s deeper, a little more growl, but it fills Nasir up with warmth to hear it once more. 

_I do not like the way he looks at you. Or the easy way he put his hands upon your body._

_I foolishly allowed it. I only meant to satisfy his curiosity, not inspire your temper._ Nasir answers, lightly pressing his lips to Agron’s snout. He can feel Agron’s rage still there, simmering under the skin. It would not take much to push him back over.

“I only ever want your hands on me,” Nasir smiles slowly, enticing with big eyes and fluttering lashes, “Only yours.”

The transformation this time is like liquid, slipping down lower as Agron shrinks. His fur ripples, slinks away to expose the hardened muscles of the man under, gleaming with sweat and heaving from the effort. Agron’s eyes still glow as he kneels before Nasir, hands pressed into the soft earth. He is still very much the animal, even if it hides under his bare skin. The power is obvious, the barely contained beast. 

Smirking slowly, Agron drags one knee forward. He stalks Nasir, keeping himself down, crawling across the grass. Caging in Nasir’s legs with his knees, he moves over his husband until Nasir is forced to lay back, grinning widely up at Agron. His breath catches as Agron lowers his head down, wetly kissing his mouth with a growl. 

“Let’s ignore my father’s calling for today.”

Nasir lets out a breathless laugh, hands sliding down Agron’s bulging arms. “You would ignore a command from the king?”

“My duties lie elsewhere,” Agron nips at Nasir’s neck, sucking hard on the skin until a bruise forms, violent and red, “I have not properly ravaged you yet.”

“And last night was what?” Nasir moans, tilting his hips up as much as he can as Agron’s cock drags along his hip, already flushed and leaking. He has missed the careless way Agron disregards everything for him, ignores title and crown just to spend few more minutes within Nasir’s arms. He barely notices Pietros slipping from the tent, face flushed with the carelessness of the royals.

“Apologies for being gone for so long,” Agron replies, creating a line of dark kiss bruises down onto Nasir’s chest, lapping at his nipple. It brings a high pitched whine from the younger man, nails digging into Agron’s ribs as he tries to squirm back.

“Ah!-Agron!” Nasir feels his husband’s fingers curling in the waistband of his pants, tugging on them roughly. He knows if Agron manages to strip him, they will never leave this tent – too caught up in the heat, the need for one another. “We have duties to attend to. The king will not just allow you to hide away in our tents.”

“I have thought of nothing but this.” Agron moves further down, slipping his fingers through the ties of Nasir’s clothes, undoing the laces on the front of his pants, beginning to ease them down his legs. “The scent of you, the taste. Lying there night after night in my tent, the phantom press of your body against mine. Time seemed so cruel without you, your pleasured moans filling my ears, crying out for me.”

“I wanted you to be here so much,” Nasir sighs, stroking his fingers over and over through Agron’s hair, “It wasn’t just for this. I needed you. You cannot even imagine what has happened, what is yet to come. The wolf festival is here and we are changing. Can’t you feel it?”

“I’m here now and I’m not going away again,” Agron laps at Nasir’s stretched navel, missing the ring that once was there. He glances up at Nasir, who is flushed and writhing, spreading his legs open around Agron’s massive shoulders. “Everything else can wait. What matters is now. Let me make it up to you.”

“I’m so sore though,” Nasir confesses with a pretty blush, cock slapping hard and wet against his belly as Agron finally strips him bare. He doesn’t even care that his perfectly braided hair is getting ruined nor that the earth is sticking to his sweat slick back. All that matters is Agron’s mouth on his chest, pulling sharp pain and highest pleasure from him. 

It is true though. Nasir’s body aches, hips bruised and lower back throbbing. He knows it’s caused from Agron’s absence and the newly added addition to his body. Nasir’s heavier now, thicker in places that once were bone thin. Agron’s body last night had been perfect, holding him up on his knees, caressing over and over his growing stomach, bringing him over with wet, burning kisses and hard thrusts. Combined with the fury of last night and Nasir’s body having not been opened like that, spread around Agron’s cock in so long, it is no wonder he woke to feeling of sharp pains.

“Let me see,” Agron replies, lifting one of Nasir’s thighs to drag his mouth down the soft skin, sucking tiny marks and bites. 

Nasir is still red, loose from last night and he squirms as Agron stares at him, glancing between his hole and Nasir’s pink face. Tentatively, Agron leans down to lap at him, licking over the skin that easily opens up, siren calling Agron to press inside. It’s just the tip, just enough to taste and pleasure, but Nasir lets out a sharp cry, hands fisting Agron’s hair. 

“Oh fuck!” Nasir whimpers, legs lifted and spread as he holds Agron’s head down. 

“Does it hurt?” Agron breathes the words against Nasir’s skin, pausing to make sure. He barely hears it above the whimpers, the tiny cry of, “don’t stop,” that spurs him on. 

The room fills with Nasir’s pants, his gasps, moaning as Agron lifts his hips up, lets him bare his weight on Agron’s hands and his shoulders. Agron laps at him again, drags his tongue back and forth before pushing it inside. He catches the faintest hint of salt, sweat, and Nasir’s skin, sucks it up and pushes back inside. He’s heavier now, extra weight of the baby making it difficult for Agron to lift his hips up like this and not hurt him, but he tries anyways, just to hear the hard click of Nasir’s throat when he nips at the skin. 

It can’t last though. Agron has forgotten how easily they’re interrupted here, someone always wanting something, calling on them in the worst sorts of moment. With Agron’s heightened senses (especially the week leading up to the festival), it is easy for him to catch the sound of footsteps, the scent of other people walking directly towards their tent. Agron only has a moment, just enough time to reach up and rip a curtain down, ignoring Nasir’s whimper of protest, before he covers his husband with the cloth and turns around. 

Spartacus walks in first, expression neutral but eyes widening as he watches Agron scramble up, tying his subligaria back in place. It does little to hide what the prince’s previous activities had been, cock tenting the fabric obscenely. He’s followed a moment later by a somber looking Duro and then a face Agron doesn’t recognize, a large grin pointed to the royal couple, growing as Nasir stands, holding golden fabric up to chest. 

“Apologies.” His accent is thick, waving his hand around through amused laughter. “If we had known you were _fucking_ , we would have told the king to allow you time to finish.”

“Heracleo, watch tongue,” Spartacus grimaces, respectfully bowing his head towards the couple, “We apologize, your majesties. We came to retrieve you, under the king’s command.” 

“And reinforce rules so easily ignored last night.” Heracleo’s gaze roves over the pair, taking in every detail – the light sheen of sweat on Agron’s chest, the curve of Nasir’s body pressed along Agron’s side. He says it in a way that has the royal couple stiffening, glancing at each other. Nasir gets the creeping fear that he knows where this is going, but there is no way to warn Agron. He can only placate his husband the best that he can. 

“What does that mean?” Agron asks gruffly, hand slipping around Nasir’s waist to pull him closer and slightly behind him, “And who the fuck is this grinning shit?”

“We have not been properly introduced, Wolf Prince. I am Heracleo, leader of the Pontas people and head of your father’s royal guard. It was my man that you threw from tent earlier,” Heracleo bows his head again, and it feels like a ploy, as if he wants Agron to react to him. Nasir’s fingers tighten around Agron’s forearm, pressing his body along his husband’s side. Now is not the time to create more enemies. 

“Where is Sedullus?” Agron shifts slightly, just enough to cross his arm over Nasir’s body, hold him back and tighter. He looks towards Spartacus whose mouth just pulls further down, taking a long, deep breath. 

“Murdered,” Heracleo’s eyes slide behind Agron, glance at Nasir with that same knowing grin. “Under most curious circumstances.” 

“We are working on solving it,” Duro answers flippantly, moving towards Agron, mouth in a grimace. He looks so much older now, has an air of severity around him that was not present when Agron left those months ago. He wonders what has forced his brother into becoming this man, a reflection of Agron’s own permanent scowl. “Please, brother, father wants you now. He has already been kept waiting.”

Spartacus nods too, as if confirming. 

“I will come.” Agron nods once, turning to Nasir. He pets a hand through the loose curl against Nasir’s cheek, kissing his forehead. “Go get dressed. I would have you by my side.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, Wolf Prince,” Heracleo steps up, revealing his hand for the first time. He’s clasping a large golden cuff, chain dragging on the ground. “Your little witch must come with me.”

“What do you mean it’s not possible?” Agron turns back sharply, eyebrow raised. There is a growl building in his chest, waiting to claw its way out of his throat, ricochet off the ground. “Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do with my husband? You forget your fucking place.”

“Agron, it’s alright.” Nasir tries, hand moving to Agron’s chest, but he is ignored in favor of the pirate’s mouth.

“Only that it’s against the law. He is to be chained again and be taken to the medical tent,” Heracleo replies, meeting the prince’s gaze boldly, “If he is allowed to come to court, he must sit before the king as the pet he is.”

“You would place a fucking high consort in chains?” Agron snarls, teeth growing dangerously, “I could pull your tongue from fucking mouth for suggesting such.”

“It is not my law,” Heracleo shrugs, and the chain clinks loudly on the floor, “but your own father’s. The king would make example of traitors.”

“Traitors-“ Agron starts again, but Spartacus turns sharply, separating the two men.

“Heracleo wait outside. I will hand over the prince to you once he has dressed and is presentable.” Spartacus’ eyes flash dangerously, “Unless you aim to watch him and deal with his husband’s rage.”

“Hurry. The king will not be kept waiting.” 

Heracleo turns, but not before smirking dangerously, gloating as he disappears through the opening of the tent in a flash of emerald and teal. The minute he is gone, Agron rounds on his friend, teeth gnashing dangerously. 

“I will not-“ 

“You will!” Spartacus hisses dangerously, voice lowering as he backs them further into the tent, “You will allow him to do as he pleases until time is right and poison takes effect. No suspicion should fall on you or Nasir. We are playing a dangerous game, Agron, one which you are the key player. You must think before you fucking act.”

“It’s okay,” Nasir tries, nodding his thanks to Duro who hands him his discarded clothes, “He will not give me away if you are here. I am safer now than I was before.”

“Give you away-“ Agron turns back, eyes widening. He wants to rage. Wants to scream until his voice is raw. Wants to rip the throat from his father’s neck, present his dead and still twitching body to Nasir – as if more death will help the situation. He can’t though, restricted by politics and playing little bullshit games that pushes him farther away from his goal – peace and silence. 

“Hush.”

Nasir pulls his pants on under the curtain, letting the fabric drop as he yanks up his tunic, wrapping the fabric closely around his chest, his stomach, before Agron can start getting territorial. It isn’t the best disguise, but Nasir knows it will have to do, that is unless he hides it again with magic. He is not yet big enough for it to be too apparent with enough fabric, just the sloping of his stomach four months in. 

“It will not be easy, for either of you, but we must be wiser than our enemies.” Spartacus watches the royal pair closely, voice aiming for reassuring. “It is only for a little while longer. You both must assume your roles. Gerulf must trust you above all others Agron. You need to be the prince he has always desired you to be.”

“You speak as if it is an easy task,” Agron bites out, “As if I’ve not been trying to do that my whole fucking life? I do not wish to please him. I do not want to do anything for that monster.”

“I did not mean-“ Spartacus begins again, only to be halted as Nasir turns to look at him, rolling his eyes. He holds up his hand, giving Spartacus pause as he moves around his husband, pressing hands to his chest. Spartacus falls back, lets Nasir soothe wounds that only he seems to be able. 

“You speak boldly and let anger rule your tongue,” Nasir murmurs, resting his chin on Agron’s sternum, “We all have had to suffer and be forced to do things we are not proud of. I do not know your plan yet. I am not sure what will happen. But what I do know if that if we are to make it out of this alive and with our child, we need to play carefully. The full moon is coming, the wolf moon, and as it does, your powers are depleting. You are not at full strength, so you must put aside your wolf rage and think like a mortal man.” 

“There is nothing I would not do for you,” Agron whispers, brushing his fingers over Nasir’s chin. 

“Then listen to Spartacus. Become the perfect prince, even if it hurts me, even if you have to push me away to do it. To have a lifetime of freedom from Gerulf is worth the pain you could inflict now.” Nasir smooths his fingertips over the wolf medallion on Agron’s armor, smiling a little. 

“When did you get so wise?” Agron asks, tapping his fingertip to Nasir’s nose. “You may make a better king than me.”

“Not a king, a consort,” Nasir grins full and happy, “and one that loves you very much.”

“I love you too.” Agron’s dimples flash, eyes bright, and for just a moment – a single time frame, it seems like everything will be alright. That plans will go accordingly. 

“Are you ready?” Spartacus has to break the moment, sure if he allows the couple to linger any longer, they may never move from staring at one another. 

“As ready as I’m going to be.” 

Agron takes a deep breath, situates his sword belt on his hip, and with one last encouraging smile towards Nasir, follows his head general out into the bright sunshine. 

\- - - 

Tracing along the edge of his goblet, Caesar lounges back into the dark, crimson pillows adorning his bed, sighing loudly. The dancers are slowing down now, blood loss lagging the twist of their arms, crawling hips forward in lazy circles. Caesar suspects they will die soon, and he’ll be forced to call more servants to remove them before they begin stinking. 

“You seem disappointed,” Ilithyia turns from her own drink, glancing at her son. “It was not my idea.”

“I’m not. It’s just tiresome to wait on the timing of mortals,” Caesar moodily stares as one of the girls drops, the other dancers not even seeming to notice. 

“Gerulf reassures us that the boy will be pregnant by the full moon,” Ilithyia continues, “We will have the babe soon enough and can wash our hands with dealing with the fucking dogs. Neither your father nor I am keen to them.”

“Why do we set our sights so low though.” Caesar rolls over onto his stomach to watch his mother, annoyed the lack of entertainment. “Can the boy not produce other heirs? He is powerful, is he not? I thought he was supposed to be the most powerful, the jewel of all of the lands.”

“Nasir is. It’s what the prophecy said,” Ilithyia shrugs lightly, “but he is married to their prince. The Alptra got to him first, a slight we are all aware of. We are not the only ones who are gunning for the child.”

“Married to Agron? Isn’t that who we originally thought the fucking prophecy was about? The most powerful wolf?” Caesar laughs shortly, “He is nothing.”

“I would not underestimate him,” Glaber comes from the shadows, mouth in a grimace, “You forget who backs him.”

“Yes, we all have heard the history you have with Spartacus,” Caesar rolls his eyes, “The lion is nothing without his king though. Agron is a growling mouth with no teeth.”

“He has fangs now though,” Glaber grins, “He has magic backing him. With the combination of Nasir’s power and his mothers, we are not just dealing with a normal Alptra. There is something about him.”

“Do you think he is the wolf then? Agron – Beast of Alptra – a prophecy fulfilled,” Caesar sits up, tilting his head. He can feel his fangs inching up in his gums, annoyed by the topic. “The king that will swallow the world.”

“That was many years ago. When the prophecy was first told, we all were looking for a newly born wolf. It just happened that Agron was born on the day that the seer saw the vision. Gerulf was so sure his little heir was the one,” Ilithyia explains, waving her hand flippantly. “He could not pass the tests though. His mother brought him to the trials, and even she did not think he was of the full power.”

“And now we are supposed to think his heir is the one we’ve all been after?” Caesar sneers, shaking his head, “The product of a dog and a witch?”

Ilithyia and Glaber share a somber look, both sneering at the thought. No, the child won’t be of their own high blood – nocturnal and dark. A true vampire heir should have been made, a combination of Caesar’s pure blood and Nasir’s darker magic. They could have ruled the earth, but the Pythonissa had sought refuge with the wolves instead. 

“They are a very powerful couple.” A voice sounds from the darkness around the tent, a sliver of red appearing in the candlelight. “Not easily separated.” 

“And what would you suggest Lucretia?” Caesar sits up, eyeing his faux aunt as she moves further into the room. He appreciates her appetites, her drive to have the world kneeling at her heel. He wonders if the world was given to her, handed over like a gold platter, what Lucretia would make of it. 

She moves around slowly, fingers trailing over the candle wax, the fabric hanging from the ceiling. She side steps the dead dancers, dress not touching them but matching the pooling crimson still leaking slowly from their necks. Caesar does not know who he loves more her or his mother, but they are equally matched in skill and fury. 

“Why have one when you can have all?” Lucretia asks smoothly. “If they are as powerful as your parents would have you believe, then why would you limit yourself to their child?”

Caesar sees Ilithyia’s eyes widen, mouth falling open behind her alabaster hand, but he ignores it in favor of listening. There is a plan beginning to take shape, and Caesar is beginning to see the light in it. 

“You were wise earlier when you said they could make more heirs,” Lucretia nods, “more children to turn into your powerful warriors. Sometimes, the mixing of pure blood with less can result in perfect combinations. That is what you want, power is it not?”

“And army of vampire wolves?” Ilithyia asks horrified, “And what good would that do?”

“With the bitch, comes the alpha dog. Have the boy make your army after he gives you the perfect heir,” Lucretia shrugs, “A child of vampire blood and magic. No one would be able to stand against such a pairing.”

“And keep them as what? My pets?” Caesar laughs delighted, eye shining crimson at the thought. 

“Your pets. Your harem. Agron will not abandon Nasir, and I do not think a father would willingly leave his sons,” Lucretia sighs, sinking down to sit by Caesar, patting his knee, “Use weakness to advantage, nephew, and see your sights soar.”

\- - - 

“Is it not a beautiful day?” Nasir breathes deeply, staring up at the sky. Autumn eases in with chilled wind and falling leaves, but it is a necessary reprieve from the heat of the summer. 

“It is, majesty,” Duro grins, wrapping an arm around his brother-in-law’s shoulders. “A glorious day.”

“You should be with your brother – a necessary support.” Nasir smiles up at Duro, adjusting the thick scarf around his neck. He doesn’t know why Duro lingers, perhaps just to reassure Agron that handing Nasir over to Heracleo went smoothly. Nasir has a suspicion that the brothers often spy for one another when needed. 

“I will, but after quick words.” Duro turns somber, turning their strolling pace slower. They will react medicus tent too soon if they continue at rapid steps. 

“What troubles you?” Nasir leans head against Duro’s shoulder, arm loose around his waist. 

“You know that commands given from my father were not my idea, right?” Duro glances down, sees Nasir’s smile faltering even as people pass them and bow. 

“Duro-“ Nasir starts, only to be cut off as Duro turns sharply, holds his shoulders in a gentle grip. 

“I love you. You are salvation we were unaware we needed. There is nothing more that I want than to see you happy and safe,” Duro murmurs, stooping to meet Nasir’s eyes.

“I love you too,” Nasir smiles warmly, but there is something in his eyes, guarded almost. 

“I don’t want to fuck you though,” Duro confesses quietly, earnestly, “I do not desire you anywhere other than beside my brother. My father is obsessed with getting you pregnant, and I had to lie to him, pretend that I would do it, so that I could be close to you. I promised Agron I would do anything to protect you. Even if that meant…doing that.” Duro scratches his nose uncomfortably. 

“I know Duro. I’m not mad at you,” Nasir smiles reassuringly, “I understand.”

“Not that you’re not beautiful and wonderful and I’m sure you’re very good in that regard. I did watch, remember?” Duro awkwardly waves a hand at below Nasir’s waist, “I’m just kinda freaked out that my niece or nephew-“

“I know!” Nasir laughs loudly, shaking his head at the whole awkwardness. “I know. You’re lovely, but I’m very much in love with Agron so I don’t really see us, you know, doing that. Ever.” 

“Okay good.” Duro stands, smoothing his hand down his armor, “Good talk. I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

Nasir covers his face, unable to stop the giggles from pouring out. The whole situation is so peculiar, so obtuse, that Nasir can’t stop. The look of horror on Duro’s face when conversation had begun was enough to make sides ache, laughter still tinging his voice as he continues. 

“Did you honestly think I wanted to sleep with you?” Nasir peeks out from between his fingers, dissolving further into laughter at Duro’s affronted look. 

“It’s not that funny. I’m a prince after all. I’m good, I’ve been told so. Ask Pietros!”

“I’m not doubting you,” Nasir waves a hand, flushing a pretty pink, “I’m just not sure why we’re still having this conversation?”

“I was just trying to be the reassuring older brother, the peace keeper, but no.” Duro shakes his head dramatically, “You had to act all-“

“Hush,” Nasir stands on his toes, kissing Duro’s cheek tenderly, “I find no fault with you. We are fine.” 

“Good.” Duro hugs Nasir tightly, “And let’s not mention this to Agron, alright?”

“You mean you don’t want me to tell my husband that you had to make it clear you didn’t want to sleep with me?” Nasir grins, tilting his head up to look at Duro, “Or that you’re whole face is red and you can’t really look at me right now?”

“I’m going to go meet with my father. Go heal people,” Duro mutters, rolling his eyes as he pulls away from Nasir’s teasing tone. 

“That strip of ankle you saw on me was really scandalous,” Nasir calls after him, “Don’t slip up and tell Agron.”

“Fuck you too!” Duro flips him off, quickly dodging people as he sprints towards his father’s tent. He can still hear Nasir’s laughter, even as he flips the door of the tent shut. 

\- - - 

The catoblepus' fur has not dimmed in the twenty-one years it has been dead even with hanging on the walls of the royal tent. The scales still gleam in the sunlight, a mixture of browns and golds. The eyes are glass, amber and topaz, and the effect is eerie. The beast appears as deadly as the day Agron brought it down, speared through the heart and throat slit. 

Standing in the field, legs trembling but sword arm sure, even if it appeared to be as tall as Agron was. Five years old, and Agron hadn't turned once to ask for help, not even when the catoblepus had thrown him to the ground, hoof catching him in the cheek. Gerulf has never been so proud - finally a true warrior to carry on his name. 

Isolde had tried to coddle him at first, teach him the secrets of the stars. His grandmother was just as bad. She filled his head with prophecies of the moon coming for him, a vast and blessed future. It stole Agron's attention, put ideas in his head, and Gerulf was quick to remove the influence. 

Agron is everything that a king could ask for in an heir. Gerulf knows that. He can see his merits, has since he was old enough to stand. Agron was born with a growl in his throat and a gleam in his eyes. Anytime there was trouble in the village, a brawl or competition, Agron was always standing in the center. Blood was his calling card. 

It only got worse when Duro was born. Gerulf had heard that the second son was always the trouble maker, the mischief, and Duro had been no different. But he worshiped the ground that Agron walked upon, and when he got himself in too deep, Agron was always the one to pull him out. 

There had been a time when a few boys in the village grew tired of Duro's taunting, his drunken bets, and put forth a plot to teach the prince a lesson. They never heard Agron, Spartacus, and Crixus coming through the woods. Agron had blood all over his chest, his knuckles looking like murder, when the guards found them. He had laughed the whole way back to the village, drunk on the ease of it. Everyone stood in his shadow.

Gerulf knows he hasn't always been the best father to his sons. There are scars on both their skin that have been caused by Gerulf's own hand. The crisscross pattern on Duro's jaw from an errant punch and king's ring when the boy would not shut his mouth. The curling knot of scar tissue on the back of Agron's head, a sword and a father who didn't understand how his son - his heir - could be caught with another boy in that way. 

Still, Gerulf had always tried to give them both what they needed - the backbone and strength that princes were required to have. Agron had grown into the most powerful man in the city, between skill with sword and the roar that made even the Alptra ground tremble. Duro was quick, clever in a way that Gerulf had never mastered himself. He would make a good advisor if he could ever reign in his temper. Gerulf may not have always been a good father, a good husband, but he is a good king. 

It had thrown him then, when after so many years of being content with his kingdom, his status, that the prophesied witch had been found - born in the back of a fucking wagon. Laughable when Gerulf had sent Agron to do the trials, the tests that would prove if he was worthy, only to have someone - a fucking Pythonissa whore be the one to carry the king of kings. Gerulf had not been the only one surprised, nor the only one to try and find the boy before he was claimed by another. 

Still, Gerulf had not expected Nasir to be like he is - beautiful and deadly and so very unaware all of what he is. It isn't just about the fever he induces every time he moves his body, the golden dripping of his magic, the venom he doesn't realize yet he possess. It is the easy way Nasir turns beasts into weakened dogs, the fire burning up inside of him - getting ready to consume the world. 

Agron, Gerulf's pride and joy, the fucking beast of Alptra - reduced down to nothing under Nasir's favor. Gerulf had sworn he didn't realize how deep it had gotten until Agron had threatened Sedullus on Nasir's behalf. Even the inseparable nature, Gerulf had thought it was Agron's lust and Nasir's dizzying magic - nothing more. 

It doesn't surprise the king how much he wants him though. Nasir's beauty is unlike anything Gerulf has ever seen, and he has not known anything in his life that he can't have until he met the little whore. Gerulf wonders what he tastes like, if his skin is soft and smooth under Agron's hands, if he opens up with heavy eyes and parted mouth. If his son can pull sounds out of the witch that no man ever has. Gerulf can only imagine what it would be like to lay inside that much power, to know that the person below you is sacred. All the seers have foretold it - no one like Nasir has been born in over a thousand years. 

Jealousy is not a feeling that the king is used to, especially when it comes to his sons. But how is that fair? Gerulf gave Nasir to Agron, thinking he would be able to bind the Pythonissa, leash his power for Alptra. Instead, Nasir had broken Agron. Twenty-seven years Gerulf had been training Agron to be the monster, the wolf beast, and Nasir had killed it all with a soft touch and love?

Gerulf sneers over the word. A useless emotion used by women and the weak to bind powerful men to them. Gerulf would not let his son, his heir, his pride and joy, be destroyed by something as pathetic as love.

\- - - 

“It feels weird to be home, does it not? We are two days away from the Wolf Moon, and yet we are training? Last year, half the whole city was still drunk from the night before. Everyone feels more somber – subdued.” 

Mira leans heavily on her bow, bending the wood enough that she can secure a new string over the edge. Before her, soldiers spar against one another, wooden swords clicking loudly in the rising mid-day sun. People look around gaunt, eyes dark and mouths thin. There is a starved feeling to them, a shadow of the joy this city once held. 

“Peculiar,” Naevia agrees, “Like a shift has happened and we are all ghosts of our former selves.”

“It will pass. It is the newness of returning to the mundane,” Crixus drags his stone down his sword, peering up at his wife. His voice seems more gravely, the evidence of a tired man. “I also do not think people know what to make of the new laws, the new consort, the newly acquired guards.”

“The pirates to replace our own men?” Naevia grumbles, “The king wishes to make a new kingdom of fish, not wolves.”

Crixus barks a laugh, “Hopefully they are quick to suffocate.” He sobers slightly, grin still half in place when a group walks past. “All will be well soon. You know not all of us will stand for it.”

“Well?” Mira stoops to talk to the couple, mouth twisted as she rubs cloth over polished wood. “Does it even feel as if we have returned to our home? Our whole town is overrun by fucking pirates. Our royals have lost fucking sense. We are led by mad men. Do not think I am foolish enough to think you back Agron completely.”

“The wolf moon is rising,” Crixus answers, grimacing, “and our powers are depleting. Nothing will feel right until it is over. As for Agron, I do not favor him. An angry fucking boy playing at being king, but the lesser of two evils is the wiser choice.”

“You would be wise to watch your words,” Mira motions towards where a group of pirates pass along the edges of the training field. 

“Let them come,” Crixus mutters, continuing sliding the stone down his sword. “I do not fear sea rats.”

Mira shoots Crixus a weary look, before gazing back out at the training men and women. They are not soldiers. They are peasants, craftsmen and bakers, told to hold swords and defend themselves and their families. Some of them are small, barely past the age of puberty, holding swords half their own height. There is a toddler by the large barrel of water, standing on a tall wooden box, straining to lift the ladel into a nearby man’s cup. The man shouts impatiently, and the child cowers, bottom lip trembling.

“Fucking shit,” Naevia notices too, sliding her sword roughly into her belt and striding across the grass. 

“Are you not a man? Capable of lifting own fucking water?” Naevia snaps, coming to stand between the child and the looming pirate. 

“Child has fucking job,” the man moves to push Naevia to the side, “Move to fucking side.” 

“Get own water,” Naevia bristles, “Or see ability to drink removed from throat.”

“The bitch threatens me!” The man turns back to the others who had been previously sparring with, laughter uproarious in the dirt field. The pirates move forward, staggering with wide gaited feet and shit eating grins. 

“She does not stand alone,” Mira cocks arrow in the newly formed bow, pointing it true at the man’s chest, moving to stand by her companion. 

“And should we tremble at the sight of two women shaking in armor?” Another joins the first, spreading his arms. “Remember your place.”

“My place?” Naevia raises an eyebrow, noticing Crixus standing but she does not let her gaze become distracted. If she has need of him, she only has to call. 

“Bent over fire or bent before my cock!” The man jabs, turning his head at the wrong moment. 

Naevia does not hesitate, blinded by rage and the fury of a man assuming he knows who she is and what she can do. She swings her sword up, aim true and arm strong, slicing the end of newly sharpened steel through flesh. The man’s ear goes flying, blood spurting from the hole where it once stood. He lets out a scream, hand automatically flying to the side of his flesh as his friends move forward. 

It’s a scuffle then, with Mira reaching down to snatch the child out from between errant feet and Crixus running forward to shove the men back. Alptra move to aid their general, roars as the pirates take up arms. The boom of battle rains down on the once calm training field, and the clanging of swords and axes bang together along the symphony. It would be a blood bath if it weren’t for the over powering shudder of the ground, separating the groups from the tremble of the earth below them. 

“What is this madness?” Nasir is standing to the side, arm clasped by Heracleo’s cuff and chain.

“Highness.” The Alptra men notice him instantly, dropping to one knee with heads bowed respectfully. The Pontra do not move, frozen in place looking between the man and their leader. 

“Well? What is the meaning of this?” Nasir moves forward as much as he can, glancing between the men. “Have you not just returned from war? Do you still thirst for blood?”

“Apologies,” The Alptra soldiers chorus together. 

“Fault is my own,” Naevia stands, clasping first to chest. “I struck first blow.”

Nasir looks over situation, crying child clasping to Mira’s hip and the blood pouring from the side of a man’s head. Naevia does not look apologetic and Crixus looks oddly proud, grin barely being smothered behind his hand as his men bow low behind him. A fair ruler does not play favorites though, and Nasir hates it, but he levels her with a stern grimace. 

“The Pontas are here to protect us. They are our allies,” Nasir holds his gaze, ignoring Heracleo’s shifting next to him, “We must treat them as brothers, not as enemies. I expected more from my husband’s trusted head generals. You cannot lead if you don’t set a proper example.” 

“Apologies,” Naevia replies, not flinching under the reprimand. She knows the part that Nasir is forced to play – the guise of ruler and loyalist. He is the consort, companion of the heir apparent. 

“See man to medicus. I will be there shortly to attend to him,” Nasir motions with a hand, “and do not fall to bloodshed again. I do not expect Prince Agron to show you such mercy if he hears of this.”

It is a valid threat. Agron has never had the sort of patience to deal with training men or soldiers. He is a good commander, but it is unspoken knowledge that Agron’s success in the army and in controlling the Alptra fighters is that he leaves most of the decisions up to Spartacus. Agron is the face, but Spartacus is the force behind it. 

Nasir does not wait for confirmation of his command, instead turns with a flourish of his cloak, strutting back through the field and towards town. Heracleo has to nearly sprint to keep up with him, looking foolish with chain clasped in hand. The Alptra shoulders wait until their prince is out of sight before rising, clasping a first to their chest. 

"Our city is run by mad men?" Naevia turns to glance at Mira, eyebrow raised, "I think you underestimate everyone in the royal line."

"Then let us put efforts into keeping the Pythonissam safe," Crixus agrees, hand on his wife's shoulder, "If he falls, I fear we all will."

\- - - 

Agron crosses his ankle over his knee, leaning heavily back into his wooden chair. His crown bites into his temples, headache coming as he tries to focus on the words of his father. Next to him, Spartacus crosses his arms over his chest, nudging the prince slightly. They share a glance, faces carefully blank and mouths matched in a deep grimace, but the message is understood. They must suffer through the king’s drunken ramble if they hope to ever gain freedom from the royal tents.

“The Pontas people are here to aid us, another set of soldiers and skills in the coming traveling months,” Gerulf explains, motioning to where Heracleo and his companion, Tryphon, stand idly sipping their wine. 

“Pirates, this far inland. You must be quenched,” Duro jarbs lightly, glancing at Agron unimpressed, “Will you be accompanying us to the palace?”

“We go where our king needs us,” Heracleo bows his head slightly, cocky expression at the light mockery. 

Agron hates that grin, hates it as much as he hates that grinning shit who had put his hands on Nasir this morning. He does not trust them. He has no reason to, no sense of honor in men that pillage and murder to make their own pockets full. He is sure that when he is placed upon the throne, they will be the first things Agron gets rid of next to that stupid fucking shackle around Nasir’s wrist. 

“We are approaching the end of the week, when the moon will be fullest, but before we discuss the Wolf Festival. I would hear of your triumphs against the vampires.” Gerulf pours himself another cup of wine, opening his hand towards the three men. “I overheard soldiers speaking of your ferocity upon the field.”

This is the part where usually Spartacus would take over telling all of what has happened, praising Agron and the soldiers, giving all the glory to Gerulf and his masterful plan. Stroking both ego and royalty with both hands, and Spartacus is a master of the craft. He never takes what he deserves, the plans that he gives to Agron to say, the leash that keeps the prince in check when Agron would rather lash out then go over details. 

Agron knows what he is – knows who he really is under all of it. He is a beast, a black hearted monster, and no matter how much Nasir claims he is the sun, it cannot erase what Agron has running through his veins. The crown around his head is the weight in which his father keeps him, but it is a weak hold in comparison to Agron’s loyalty to Spartacus. Gerulf’s intentions, his plans and schemes, do not matter to Agron if he falls out of Spartacus’ favor. 

Spartacus’ fingers brush Agron’s arm, a barely there brush, but it is a signal. He intends to have Agron take over, gain the glory and the storytelling – become boastful and proud of the slaughter of an entire race. Joyful genocide. Agron doesn’t know if he can though. The woman’s face, dark eyes gleaming but still, and the baby clutched in her arms. He can still remember her full mouth and fangs and the blood that had colored it all so fucking red. Agron can close his eyes and still see the crimson, all over his hands. 

“Well,” Agron tries to swallow back the bile as he launches into the vague details. He doesn’t really need to give Gerulf all of it, just enough to paint a gruesome picture – every bloody detail will come out eventually. 

The wound on his arm itches something horrible, vampire venom having burned him through nightmares and visions. Agron wishes he could forget what had happened to him on the road, the wound festering and making him see things in his dreams when usually they were blissfully clear. The blood on Nasir’s lips, unnatural and grotesque on his face. The easy way he had fallen to his knees, and the humming around them – the calling sound of a thousand hungry monsters ready to descend. 

He should have told Nasir, asked him if he had anything to cure it, but Agron doesn’t want to worry him anymore than he already is. Placing another weight on his husband’s shoulders when Nasir can barely stand up straight under all the force. Nasir still has that dark look about him, that mask that only comes out when he wants to guard something – always on the defense. 

Agron’s words come, but he isn’t really sure if what he’s saying is the truth or more of a made up series of events. Was it raining on the battlefield? Agron remembers being wet, and maybe he did mention it, but he can’t focus. Duro’s gentle prescience beside him gives him some comfort, dark eyes and skin. He looks more like their mother than Agron ever has, but Agron isn’t bitter over it. He’s the perfect replica of Gerulf with less hard lines on his face, but more scars _inside_. 

Gerulf takes all the information like he takes everything else – gleaming eyes and still mouth. He has heard snippets, small reports of his son’s ferocity and skill upon the field. It is always the same when they go to war – Agron outshines everyone. There is a rage inside of him that cannot be matched. Still, with the way he had acted upon return, Gerulf cannot help but feel as if a lesson is needed in respect. 

“You have done well,” Gerulf slowly tracks his eyes over his son. There is a dark red bruise on Agron’s chest, teeth marks in a neat little row with two deeper presses a few inches apart. They look like fangs. Gerulf distantly realizes what it is, and with a grin, tilts his head forward. “I wish I had been there to see you in your true element, my son.”

“We shall see you once more return the field of battle, father, for the glory of our people.” Agron replies respectfully. He has seen his father coated in blood, the slaughter of an enemy, the betrayal of his sons. Agron thinks that Gerulf forgets how well Agron remembers. 

“What has your husband said of his time here while you were away?” Gerulf asks, changing the topic sharply. He would hear it directly from Agron’s mouth before he makes up his mind about this evening. 

“Just that,” And Agron does not falter, nor does he let the furious growl creep into his voice, “he was forced to follow laws that took him from status and position and placed him amongst the slaves.”

“He is dangerous, my son.” Gerulf’s dark eyes track over Agron’s face, the perfect mask in place to hide all of Agron away and only give the Agron that Gerulf has trained. “His magic is errant. I do not think we have been strict enough with him. He does not deserve such a hefty title when he parades himself around in the manner he does.”

“Nasir only does what you have told him,” Agron replies carefully, noticing Spartacus shifting next to him, “Did you not purchase him for my pleasure and the awe of the people?”

“There have been reports of his infidelity towards you,” Gerulf smoothly says the words, raising an eyebrow at his son. “Would you raise an illegitimate son? Place a bastard on the throne after thousands of years of our pure bloodline.”

Agron thinks distantly about the way Nasir’s arms had held him last night, mouth a furnace and body a vice. There had been no one else. Nasir’s heart was sewn as tightly as Agron’s was, threaded together with a million lines of gold and crimson and silver. He would have felt Nasir slipping away, would have tasted the lies on his skin. Instead, Agron had only quenched himself on Nasir’s cries, his biting nails on Agron’s back, the way his eyes gleamed when he was drifting too far into pleasure. It was a vicious love, but it was theirs. 

“We are a very precarious position,” Agron crosses his arms over his chest, leather harness biting into the flesh. “The moon is rising, father. Our people expect us to perform as we have every year prior, except now we have a moon. Wouldn’t it stand suspicious to have a consort in chains? We need to reinstate our people’s faith in us – united together as a family.”

“You are poisoned by his magic,” Gerulf grimaces, “Don’t be foolish, Agron. He is nothing but shimmering lies and witchcraft. He will never hold the place that your mother did. He tried to kill our guests.”

“You gave him to me,” Agron shrugs, “We are married, sworn to one another under the gods and through his magic. You know that if we divorce, by Alptra law, we both will be put to death. Would you have Duro become your heir apparent?”

It’s a checkmate, a stand still. If Gerulf removes Nasir, then he removes Agron. The people want Nasir as their moon, the _queen_ , and Agron knows it. He has seen the loyalty that Nasir has won by having the soft hand, the quiet reverence to learn the customs and exchange magic for loving eyes. He’s proud of the little battles Nasir has already won for them – won for their family. 

Gerulf studies his son, his pride and his enemy. There is a crisscross pattern on the back of Agron’s arm, leading up to his shoulder, and Gerulf cannot stop being obsessed with the idea of them together. Does Agron hurt him in the ways he hurt the other boys that Gerulf had seen? Did he hold him down, forget himself, let his powers out – let the wolf claim the fucking world and leave nothing in his wake? Would Gerulf be thrown to the very fires of the underworld if he saw, if he witnessed the raw hurricane that happens between them? Gerulf isn’t sure what he wouldn’t give up for just a taste. 

“You need to train him better,” Gerulf gives a little, relents his position, “Nasir is not worthy of the crown he wears if he cannot behave himself. No more dancing. No more magic.”

Agron doesn’t call him on the pure hypocrisy of his statement. Nasir is not a dog that Agron can snap his fingers and he’ll run or heel or bite. Instead, Agron bows his head respectfully and thinks of how simple things will be when Gerulf is cold and lifeless. Agron considers if Nasir would be more inclined to accept Gerulf’s head on a silver or gold plate, blood still dripping from his throat. 

“I am prepared to do anything to prove to you that I am worthy of my title.” 

Agron does not mean his royal line, simple phrases like prince, heir, cherished - but the other one. The one people whisper behind his back. The one slicked with innocent blood and the sharp jagged edges of broken bones and insomnia. The one that sounds like _beast, monster, nightmare._

The best of the worst.

Gerulf has no idea what he has created. 

\- - -

 

Tove considers himself half invisible, more than half of the time. It's easy to hide behind badly timed jokes and sexual innuendos when no one has ever expected him to be anything more. He doesn't have the energy nor the desire to be ferocious like Saxa, his older sister, nor poised constantly for the kill like Agron. He's not carelessly passionate like Duro, not wise like Spartacus, not cruel like Gerulf. He's the comic relief at the worst of times, a backup plan half formed with 'just in case" always attached. 

Laying on his back on the cot, Tove stares up at the speckled ceiling. It has been raining for a while now, and the canvas above him sags with the weight. He can faintly hear the groans and sobs of the injured soldiers around him. There are worse cases, missing arms and flesh pulled back and steepled like the inside of an orange. Lives on the brink of being lost and the sharp scent of death and herbs. 

He's surprised, pleasantly, then when the curtain is torn back from around his bed and Nasir moves inside. There is a large stain of red across his tunic, up his neck and across both his hands. His hair is piled high, and there is a blatant bruise on his collarbone that looks more vicious than the carnage around them. 

"Tove! Why didn't anyone tell me you were here?" Nasir moves quickly to his side, dragging his captor along with him. The dark skinned pirate looks queasy, mouth in a thin line as he loosely holds the chain to Nasir's left wrist. Tove can only imagine what he's been a witness to. 

"No need to worry, pet." Tove grin is more of a grimace, but he counts it as a valiant effort. "I figured you would be too busy last night with your husband's sudden return to come and see me."

Nasir rolls his eyes, easing the loose gauze down from Tove's chest. The stab wound is deep, edges a crusted maroon and brown, oozing green in the very depths where the red turns to black and then bright pink of muscle. Nasir dips his fingers into the gouge, pulling them out coated a sickly yellow white before his frown pulls down further, wrinkling his pretty face. 

"Agron," Nasir begins, voice thick with the Alptra tongue, "could have waited to quench his thirst for me until after I saved his cousin's life. I do have other purposes than to lay upon back."

"You speak our language well," Tove grins back, delighted as the pirate sighs annoyed at being shut out of the conversation, "Was your mouth bored without Agron's here to be attached to it? Had to put it to other use?"

"You are too curious about my marriage." Nasir bites back, reaching nearby for bottles of potions, pouring them into a large wooden bowl on his lap. He does not look pleased. 

Tove studies the down curl of Nasir's mouth, the way his jaw clicks when he grinds his teeth together. It must be driving him insane not to use his magic, not to place his hand over Tove's sternum and heal him instantly. Instead, he is reduced down to mixing fucking leaves and berries together, pretending that this is the only help he can offer. 

He looks smaller than Tove last remembers, a sharpness to his cheekbones and jaw, darkness in the hallows of his eye. It's as if all the joy and power has slowly been draining from Nasir, leaving a shell that once was full. 

"You look tired," Tove keeps the language going, hiding behind it from the pirate's dark, knowing gaze. "Have you slept at all since we left?" 

"Enough to know I don't want to." Nasir smiles faintly, a barely there ghost. “I see things sometimes in my dreams. The magic keeps getting stronger the longer I’m, well, the longer I’m impaired.”

"See things?" Tove asks, unsure if he's allowed to push the topic or not. 

"I know what you did."

The finality of the statement hangs in the air, a swinging anvil ready to drop. Tove doesn't know how to fucking reply to that. Nasir's eyes are stuck down towards Tove's ruined chest, glazing up, and Tove is not the saving prince that Nasir needs right now, but fuck, he'll try. Nasir has won his loyalty a long time ago. 

"Nasir." Reaching out, Tove gently wraps his hand around Nasir's wrist, pausing his movement. There are stray tears caught in the edges of Nasir's eyes, a deep yawning wound in the way he doesn't reach for them, doesn't brush them away, but stares blaringly pained at Tove. 

"Do not touch the prince!" The pirate snaps, reaching for his sword. It's the only control he has over the situation, shut out by the deep growls and sharp noises of the Alptra's native tongue.

"I'm a fucking prince too," Tove replies shortly, waving his hand as if dismissing a clumsy servant. He does not have time for this.

"Tove is Agron's cousin, Castus," Nasir explains to the guard, gently pressing his hand to Castus' dark forearm. He makes sure to open his eyes big, licking his lips slowly. Easy and pathetic seduction that has Castus grinning. Nasir would feel sick to his stomach if he had the energy to muster it. "Could you please give us a minute? I don't think you want to see this next part."

Castus eyes the weeping slash through Tove's chest, the green curls of infection roped through the muscle. Each breath spreads the wound winder, blood rising to the surface to be sucked back inside. It turns Castus' stomach sharply, and he nods hastily, waving his hand. 

Nasir waits until the curtain closes around them before he tosses the wooden bowl to the floor. Hands caked in the entrails of someone else, he presses them firmly to the slash and meets Tove's with his own narrowed gaze. 

"Ready" 

It's the only warning he gets before Tove is forced down, paralyzed as waves of magic flow from the palm of Nasir's hand and onto his skin. 

The howl that rips through his throat is raw and genuine, gurgling a moan after as saliva fills his mouth. Tove’s skin slides together, restitching a follicle at a time. Every movement of Tove's skin shoots a never ending wave of agony through him as it resume it's previous position. He can feel it when the infection cures itself, a burning rage through his veins. 

"Fuck!" Tove gasps when Nasir retracts his hand, checking his work with probing fingers. The new flesh is pink and soft, baby skin.

"I'm sorry. I know it hurts." Leaning down, Nasir brushes his lips over Tove's forehead, to his temple, and then down to his ear. His breath is hot when he whispers to him. "You've got to pretend I didn't do that. Gerulf will kill me if he finds out I'm using magic, okay?"

"Anything for you." Tove means it, so fucking willing to do anything he can for this man.

How does Nasir do it? Win loyalty and favor with just a long blink and a soft smile? Tove knows it's not all that. He's kind when others are not, soft when men won't budge, a single breath of air in an sinking kingdom. 

It's a strange way to see him, the strength hidden by softness - so different from everyone else. Tove wonders if Agron realizes that. He must. He must see the hidden heavy heart that pulls Nasir around, weighs him down, keeps him grounded when Agron insists on blazing up higher and higher. 

Nasir wraps gauze around Tove's newly healed skin, makes it look like the wound is still there. He's been playing make believe for so long it's easy. Just another card in the deck, a slight of hand. 

"You can come back in Castus." 

Nasir is all casual now, easy lines of his shoulders and sticky skin. He picks absently at the crusted matter on his thumb, sneaking Tove a wink before the curtain opens. Castus' lingers awkwardly stiff, holding the chain in his left hand and the curtain in his right, a pinched look to his mouth. Nasir doesn't bother to hurry to look at him, more tilting his head to the side and then letting his eyes follow. 

"Spartacus is here."

He doesn't know why, but Nasir looks down at himself, seeming to really take in the carnage all over him. He looks like he's been wading through someone's body, marking paths while trying to pull skin back together, draw infection out, and swallow the wailing. It doesn't matter too much, not really, but Nasir wishes he could control at least one thing in his life right now. If he had the power to stop Agron's worrying, to stop worrying about Agron. To stop the howling inside of his skull. 

With a soft pat to Tove's thigh, Nasir pushes himself up, features schooled back to calm neutral. He doesn't give anything away, but his eyes gleam over at Tove - a reminder of their little white lie. Tove nods once, watching silently as Castus leads the prince outside. 

He can't help but think that when it all comes down to it, the wolves that stalk the ground around them are not nearly as dangerous as their little snake prince. Not at all. 

\- - -

Nasir squints against the downpour of rain, shielding the top of his head with the edge of his cloak. It’s been pouring for a while, unrelenting autumn storm that sticks the fallen leaves against the sides of the medical tent and turns the parched grass into mud. The whole city seems to be sleeping, burrowed away as their fires won’t stay lit nor will the torches. It’s a sleepy sort of calm and there will be no moon tonight for the Alptra people to worry over. 

Spartacus doesn’t flinch under the stream, flanked on either side by twin, fully armored guards. Their shoulders seem to span the sky, thick in leather and metal, and faces dragged down into matching scowls. Nasir has to crane his neck to look at them, raindrops catching in his eyebrows and along his nose.

“Your majesty,” Spartacus’ expression is grim at best, “please follow us.”

Nasir doesn’t really have an option as his leash is handed from Castus to one of the guards, pulling him sharply from the tent. The guard who takes it does not allow Nasir to linger, tugging him forward as they move through the city. Suckling up to his ankles, the ground is unrelenting and Nasir is sure that if he had a moment to pause, it would pull him down and swallow him whole. 

He isn’t sure where they’re going, having spent most of his time in the straight path from his front door to the medicus tent and back. He can smell the sharp tang of fire in the air, the sulfur sticking to the back of his throat. Panic wells up in him, the fear of the unknown and Gerulf's power, but Nasir doesn't allow himself to reach out and grab Spartacus. Surely if something was wrong, they would at least be hearing Agron's roars, right?

Spartacus ends up leading them through a maze of leather and hyde until they reach a large black tent on the outskirts of the town. With a pointed glance, he eases the chain from the guard's hand and slips his fingers over Nasir's shoulder and guides him through the doorway. 

The first thing Nasir notices is the large stone circle in the center, golden flames lick at the edges, scorching the gray into an inky black. A large piece of metal is placed in the middle, and as the fire cracks, a glowing ember lands on it, disappearing into a small black circle. 

"Are you going to kill me?" Nasir asks softly. It's almost laughable how expected it is now, just waiting for someone to hold his hand and lead him to his execution. 

"Never." Spartacus waves a hand towards a large man in the corner of the tent. "Rhaskos, I need you to remove this shackle, and do it gently."

Nasir's eyes dart quickly to the general as Spartacus hands over the chain. The man he gives it to is simple, shaven head with beady eyes, wearing a leather apron. Nasir remembers him from the first time he put the cuff around him, and he tries to flinch away. There are still a line of blisters up his wrist, hidden and irritated by gold. 

"By whose command?" Rhaskos asks cockily, raising an eyebrow. 

"Mine via the king." Spartacus guides Nasir further into the tent, hand on him unrelenting. 

With a roll of his eyes, Rhaskos turns back to his forge. He seems to be searching along the long handles for something, before with an affirmative sound, he finds it. Reaching in, Rhaskos slides a large clamp out of the flames, the claw burning a sickly maroon. He doesn't give Nasir a chance to draw a breath, to brace for it, before the hot metal is pushed into the seam. It lights it up like Nasir's own veins are glowing, until suddenly the cuff breaks open and drops to the ground with a loud thud. 

"Thank you." Spartacus takes a trembling Nasir back into his arms, flippantly calling over his shoulder as they make their way outside. "Melt it down. I don't want to see it again."

The guards are gone when they get back to the rain, leaving nothing but large footprints in the sludge. Spartacus keeps his hand firmly around Nasir's bicep, leading him away from the tracks and along the edges of the city. 

"You are going to be reinstated as consort at midday meal and be put back into your place at court." Spartacus has to lean in close to get over the thunder, and Nasir feels the warm wash of his breath all over his neck. 

"What game is this?" Nasir asks, the words burning on his tongue. It's false hope, false starts. 

"Agron has cut a deal with Gerulf that you are to be placed back into your royal position until the Wolf Moon has passed. It's supposed to be a sign of good faith for the people," Spartacus answers simply. "But you have to act the way Gerulf wants you too - modest, no magic, no dancing. He is acting innocent in commanding you to do anything."

"And if I don't?" Nasir asks, raising a knowing eyebrow. "If I don't follow exactly what he wants?"

"Agron has to be the one to kill you." Spartacus doesn't look at Nasir when he says it, but his fingers tighten. "To set an example."

Nasir nods silently, peering out through the rim of his hood at the rain. He isn't surprised by it, relatively normalized to Gerulf's rash behavior when it comes to himself. Thinking of the long sword that is nearly always attached to Agron's hip, Nasir wonders if he'd use that or something smaller, a dagger maybe to Nasir's throat or his claws scratching down Nasir's back. 

"It's not going to happen, Nasir," Spartacus' hand is warm on the side of Nasir's neck, stopping his stomping steps through the mud. "It's two days, two days and he'll never be able to touch you again."

Nasir studies the faint wrinkles around Spartacus' eyes, the increasing stress and darkness of the sky making him seem so much older than he already is. Nasir wants to gently stroke the edges of his cheekbones and tell him it's all alright even if it's a lie. He supposes that even a white lie, and the knowledge that they both know it's false, is better than the truth they have to face every day. 

"We'll discuss the plan after the meal." Spartacus finally sighs, leading him straight up to his front door. "Agron is waiting inside for you. Get cleaned up and I'll be back to collect you."

"Why are you doing this?" Nasir asks suddenly, reaching out to stop Spartacus retreating. 

"What do you mean?" Spartacus looks confronted with the question, brow wrinkling. 

"You're risking a lot to save a few people," Nasir replies, the darkness that has been growing from the moment they left brewing to the surface. It's a gnawing monster that twists all of Nasir's faith and removes hope. He isn't sure he even believes in anything anymore. "Are you sure we're worth it?"

Spartacus considers the words, eyes mapping over Nasir's dark eyes and wet mouth. There are cracks in the foundation that were once whole, the dulling of gold. He can see it in the way Nasir doesn't cower before him, doesn't flinch under the storm, just waits it out. He expects the worst and has only received it. Spartacus is not the one that needs to repair the slowly ruin before him though. He doesn't have the words. Instead, he leans forward and kisses Nasir's forehead, a barely there brush.

"Do not give up, Nasir." Spartacus murmurs into his ear again, cheekbones pressing together, "We are still here. We are still fighting."

Nasir smiles weakly at Spartacus' words. The ache to want to believe him, to keep strong, pulls the air sharply from Nasir's lungs. He wants to believe, wants to be the warrior they need, but it all pulls so heavy on him. Nasir thinks he could lay down and sleep for years and it still would not be enough. It's never enough. 

There are no words necessary as Nasir turns towards the tent, the warm glow of the fire like a beacon as Nasir slips inside. 

Agron is standing by their bed, fiddling with the cuff of his arm band and cursing quietly. Nasir is caught halfway across the room, staring at him in the auriferous light, tracing over him slowly. He knows it's ridiculous. He knows what his husband looks like, has seen every expression cross Agron's chiseled face, and yet. 

Yet. 

He can't help it. Having spent so much time waiting for him to come home, remembering him in different ways - it's all pale in comparison. Nasir can't take his eyes off him, the cut of his shoulders, the small freckles on his forearms, the soft bow of his lips. Nasir is too far away to see his eyes clearly, but he can make out the dark smudges of his eyelashes, the furrow of his brow, the line of his hair against his temples. 

"Agron." 

It comes out broken, voice thick with emotion - a desperate cry that grabs his attention instantly. Nasir loves all of it, every scar and soft hair, every curve of Agron's body, his hands, his face. 

It only takes a moment for him to cross the dirt, hands reaching out and pulling Nasir close. He smells like leather and wine and _home_. Then it's his lips in Nasir's hair and his fingers on his back, across his neck, on his face. Agron's mouth a soft press against Nasir's, skirting away to nudge his nose against a stray raindrop on the curve of Nasir's cheek. 

"What is it? What’s wrong? Spartacus was supposed to tell you." Agron murmurs, guiding Nasir towards the large sprawling furs over their bed. "It's good news!"

"I-" Nasir hesitates, slipping his hand into Agron's pulling them onto the blankets. It's easier for him with the curtains cocooning them inside, hiding them from the storms outside. He settles cross-legged, not continuing until Agron's knees are pressed to his own. "Can we sit here for a minute?"

"Of course," Agron nods. He's stripped down to his subligaria, skin gleaming bronze and Nasir caresses his fingers over and over his arms, slipping down to lace their fingers together. 

Agron doesn't move, doesn't react to Nasir's still blood covered hands. He just traces his thumb over and over Nasir's in a slow line, staring at him. He can't read anything in Nasir's face, no fear or anger, just an earnestness that Agron can't seem to figure out. 

_"I just want to look at you."_ Nasir whispers in Agron's mind, the breath of magic gentle as it seems to caress through his temples. 

Agron smiles slightly, enough to dent his cheeks with dimples and eyes gleam. He doesn't stop holding Nasir's hand, but draws it up to his lips to gently kiss it. They've only been married for five months, and yet Agron still is fascinated by everything Nasir does. The simple way that Nasir seems to take the very breath from Agron’s chest and fills it up with something else, the churning of his stomach like a million waves.

Nasir wants to know desperately what their child will look like. If it will have the slight downturn that Agron’s mouth has, the furrowed brow. He hopes it has the dimples and the laugh, the way Agron fills a room with whatever he’s feeling. Maybe it will have his courage, his rage, his heart that seems so heavy. Nasir only wants the baby to have everything good in them, and not the bad. 

Leaning forward, Nasir's gaze moves from Agron's cheek to his eyes, then down until he can watch the quiver of Agron's lips around his breath. He knows they need to probably get going, should think about duties and plans, but Nasir can't focus on anything but leaning forward and tasting the heart shape that Agron's lips make. 

It's easy, muscle memory, the sliding of their mouths together. Agron's teeth catch on Nasir's bottom lip, Nasir sucking on his tongue, the gasp - catch and release of breath. Agron's hands are cupping the nape of Nasir's neck, tracing over the soft hair that curls against his neck. 

We could run away, Nasir thinks to himself, far far away where no one knows our names, no one would guess who they are. They could settle in some distant mountain town, raise the babies, bring Duro and Pietros along so they wouldn't get too bored. Beg Spartacus to come too. All their days could be spent chasing babies around the yard, raising goats, making love in the grass under the stars. 

Pulling back, Nasir rests his forehead on Agron's shoulder, nuzzling against the sharp cut of his collarbones. Thunder rattles the tent above them, and he's not sure if it's left over rain water, tears, or new droplets that slick over his cheeks. 

"You're covered in blood," Agron murmurs, seeming to have finally realized it, idly playing with a button on the front of Nasir's tunic before slipping it loose. He moves nimbly onto the one below it, stripping Nasir slowly. 

"It's not mine." Nasir's words are muffled by the way he presses his cheek down, slurring. "Tove is going to survive, by the way."

"Stupid fuck," Agron chides without heat, easing the cloth off Nasir's shoulders. 

Nasir pulls back when he has to, eases from the bed with a struggle, hand firmly on his lower back. Agron watches it all, amused slightly when he has to press his own palm to Nasir's waist to help him fully upright. Nasir shoots him a narrowed glare, but it's without any real malice. 

"Remember that you did this to me," Nasir snips, a stomp to his steps as he makes his way over to the water bowl in the corner. 

"I don't remember you complaining when I was deep inside of you." Agron replies smartly, standing up and following Nasir over. He drags a strand of Nasir's hair back from his face, kissing right on the sharp curve of Nasir's jaw. 

"Maybe I should have," Nasir doesn't mean it, cleaning his hands of the carnage before reaching back to stroke the side of Agron's neck. 

Agron doesn't reply with words, instead traces his fingers in circles over and over the swell of Nasir's stomach. He can sense the pinpricks of magic where his fingerprints are, a nudging as the baby kicks happily against the touch. 

It's instantaneous - the flash of the vampire woman, her small child with its cerulean lips, the stench of death through the rain. Agron's hands all slick with blood and the silence - the crushing silence of a whole race of people being wiped away from the earth. There wasn't a breath left to be gasped, not a single death prolonged. 

"Agron!" Nasir cries, hands tightening on the glass bowl before him. The swell of the magic between them is nauseating, knees buckling, and Nasir has no way to yank away – no way to run from the sweltering heat of the magic. 

Horrified, Agron yanks away, stumbles over words and excuses that make no sense. He isn't sure Nasir even knows what he just did, isn’t sure he knows himself. His own powers, the wolf, are shrinking with every moment leading up to the moon and Agron needs to go – get away from here, but Nasir’s eyes are huge and he’s so fucking still – not breathing. 

“It’s nothing.” Agron chokes out, itching to back further away, but he’s pinned in place by that knowing stare. 

“I already know,” Nasir tries the words on carefully, easing them out as if he’d talk to a startled animal. “I saw it before.”

Thunder rumbles outside loud enough to tremble the ground, and Agron wants to push his knees into the soft earth and his face into Nasir’s lap. He wants to hide away like he’s never been allowed, burrowing in the comfort of Nasir’s arms, his warmth. Agron doesn’t have the strength to show the weakness, instead, he turns around sharply, reaching towards his armor. 

“Get dressed, Nasir. Something modest. My father wants us both presentable.” 

Fury, hot and bright whips through Nasir, and he lashes out, voice sharp and demanding. It’s so fucking like Agron to hold it all back from him, hiding to “protect” instead of just letting Nasir bare the weight. 

“You can’t shut me out, Agron.”

Agron glances over his shoulder and Nasir regrets it instantly, moving across to press his cheek against the sharp cut of Agron's shoulder blade. 

"Please, I don't want to do this anymore." Nasir whispers, hands soft on Agron's back. "Why can't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"The weight you have carried these past months," Agron struggles with the words, "the horror you've had to endure. I won't add to that. I can't."

"We are so close though," Nasir whispers, Spartacus' words seeming to come from his mouth, "I did not abandon you when you left my side, left me here to deal with your father. I will not leave you now."

Agron turns then, and Nasir tilts his head back as if expecting a kiss, but Agron doesn't give it to him. Instead, he wraps his arms around Nasir's waist, pulling him tightly against Agron's body. With a deep sigh, he bends to burrow his face against the soft line of Nasir's neck. He doesn't want the pleasure, the never ending lust. Agron just wants the sureness of Nasir's arms around him, the calmness of being held without the fear of being ripped apart for the weakness. 

_"One day,"_ Nasir whispers, _"this life will just be a distant memory. We will be far away from it, safe from everything we've had to endure."_ "

 _"I just want one day of peace."_ Agron's voice cracks on the last words, and Nasir feels the tears against his jaw. 

Nasir can't promise that. He doesn't know what is coming, what the festival even really entails, but he does what he can do is stroke his fingers through Agron's hair, simple kindness. It has never been hard to show Agron his love. 

_"I don't want you to see the things inside of me that make me a monster."_ Agron chokes out, voice thick with it, but Nasir does not falter, continues to weave his fingers through the short spiky strands on the back of Agron's head. 

"In this fight, there are only two sides. With you and against you," Nasir pulls back to look at Agron's reddened face, "This," and Nasir holds up his hand, showing Agron his wedding ring, "and this," a hand to his stomach, "and this," finally, Nasir settles Agron's hand on his chest, right where his heart beats, "is proof that I am all for you. And you are for me. There is nothing in this world that will ever cause me to leave your side."

"I promise," Agron nods, dragging his hand under his eye, "I will never leave you."

"Then don't push me away," Nasir kisses Agron's cheek, nuzzling there, "I love you too much to be without you."

"I love you too."

Nasir lets them cry together, just a few stray tears, before he takes a deep breath and pulls back with a reassuring smile. He doesn't want them to linger, to make Spartacus walk in on another awkward scene. Instead, he edges back over to his trunks, pulling clothes and digging through trinkets until he finds what he's looking for - something modest and thick against the storms rage. 

\- - - 

The storm has settled down into a lazy drizzle that slicks the night into darkness. Guards stand around the quiet city, eyes heavy in exhaustion and bodies limp as they lean against their spears. There is no threat outside the mud that feels as if it will swallow them all whole. 

Inside the tent, Nasir leans back heavily on a thick set of pillows, pulling a blanket across his lap to fight off the chill. He aches all over, spine and hips throbbing from the baby’s constant kicking, shoulders tense from sitting in the high backed throne all afternoon. Gerulf had played his part well, nodding and smiling at Nasir. All forgiveness in the darkness of his eyes, but Nasir was not born yesterday. He knows the monster itching on Gerulf’s skin. 

Agron makes a noncommittal noise to something Duro is saying, pulling Nasir’s feet into his lap. He eases his fingers along the swollen skin of his ankle, thumb digging into the bones, and his eyes snap to Nasir’s when Nasir lets out a deep groan. Agron does it again with purpose, dragging his fingertips down the sole of Nasir's foot, wrapping his palm over Nasir's ankle. 

Eyelashes fluttering, Nasir stretches further down until Agron moves his fingers up, inches them over Nasir's calves to the soft skin behind his knee. It occurs to Agron that Nasir is naked under the tunic he's wearing, indigo and a million stars tied loosely with a silver cord. He can see the way it clings over Nasir's stomach, a curve that Nasir easily fits his hands over. It would be easy to undo the knot, lay Nasir out naked so Agron can caress over his ever changing body, the skin stretched taut and thin.

Apep raises his gray head from where he's curled near Nasir's shoulder at his master’s groan, hissing in the dying light. Agron doesn't pay him any mind, watches the snake press his tongue affectionately to Nasir's cheekbone in a little kiss before sliding off - probably to go hunt for more mice. Nasir lets him have his run of the tent as long as he behaves. The first time Apep had hissed at Agron, all fangs and dripping venom, Nasir had admonished him in sharp Pythonissa until the snake seemed to hang his head and hide himself away for the rest of the afternoon.

Agron's gaze doesn't waver as he moves his fingertips up higher, brushing against the soft skin on Nasir's thighs. He doesn't intend it to be heated, tracing goosebumps in dizzying circles. Aiming for comfort, Agron wishes he could do more to praise his husband, give him gentle caresses and love until Nasir remembers that he’s cherished, above everything. 

They continue to stare at each other, Nasir squirming slightly as Agron goes back to dragging his thumb into Nasir's heel. It sends shoots of pleasure through Nasir's nerve endings, and he writhes slightly, fisting the blankets against his hip. Thighs seeming to part involuntarily, Nasir tries to hide the blush against his cheeks but to no avail – flush turning crimson. 

_”You ache,”_ Agron sends the thought, brow furrowing. 

_”Yes,”_ Nasir answers in a moan even if his mouth does not move. _”Child grows inside of me and pushes body to its limit.”_

“Agron? How long should we wait to discuss plan?” Duro’s voice sounds far away as they royal couple continues their own silent conversation. 

_”You should rest more, my love,”_ Agron’s eyes linger on Nasir’s filling chest. _”And not spend so much time bent over the sick and dying.”_

 _”I am fine. Just tired from long day and the rain.”_ Nasir reaches down to brush his fingers over Agron’s wrist, smothering a yawn. _”I only wish for us to sink forever into our bed, killing kings and wars be damned.”_

Agron lets out a short laugh, only to have the sound robbed from him as Duro’s hand connects squarely with the back of his head. 

“Fuck!” Agron snaps, forced to yank his eyes away from Nasir. 

“I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes!” Duro defends, skirting away and into Auctus’ arms to avoid a retaliation attack. “Are we going to discuss the plan or not?”

“We are.” 

Everyone turns to see Spartacus slipping through the folds of the tent, Mira close behind him. They’re both carrying a large barrel, top sealed shut to hide its contents. Placed on top of the wood is a tiny vial, the liquid inside glimmering a dark gray. 

Resituating himself under the guise of company, Nasir has to use Agron’s hand to pull himself up into sitting. Everything seems so much harder with the added weight, the unfamiliarness of his body, and it’s not but a moment of sitting cross legged that Nasir has to drag the pillows back over, slumping against them with a small pout. Agron soothes it away a moment later with a gentle kiss, nuzzling his nose up against the bridge of Nasir’s. 

“Remember what the burden holds.” Agron murmurs, sealing the soft words with another kiss. Nasir wants to bite out a retort, something about how Agron should try feeling like he’s swollen from the outside in, but the words leave him as the baby kicks happily against his ribs. This is his family – the one he has made all on his own.

The words are just reinforced as Spartacus and Mira set the barrel in the corner of the room, both coming to take up position upon the floor. It’s only a moment later that both Tove and Pietros come in, followed close behind by Crixus and Naevia, Yasmina clutched against her mother’s hip. Upon seeing him, she lets out a high pitched giggle, reaching out to Nasir instantly. He lets her sit against his knees, letting her play with his fingers and rings. She seems perfectly content to do so.

It seems a gathering of sorts is upon them, and allies forming and lines being drawn. Nasir isn’t sure how they got this far, how the nightmare of the past three months could have possibly turned into this – to the planning of treason, killing a king, and the creation of life – an heir – all at once. 

“The plan is simple,” Spartacus starts, glancing around the room, making sure he has everyone’s attention before he continues, “We are going to poison Gerulf at the festival feast tomorrow.”

“Can someone explain to me what is exactly happening tomorrow? And the night of the full moon? You all talk about it, but you never explain what is actually is.” Pietros speaks up from his spot sprawled against Duro’s side, head on his shoulder. 

“The Wolf Moon is the festival in which we celebrate our creation,” Crixus begins, raspy voice seeming to add to the mystery of the story, “Throughout this week, our powers have been depleting by sunrise, we will be completely mortal – no animal powers, no invulnerability. Then, the night of the full moon, we offer a sacrifice to Caelestis – the moon goddess, to reassure her of our love and devotion. 

As the moon rises to its highest point, our powers come flooding back – forcing us into the animal we have been chosen for. The Alpha of our wolves will then lead us on the hunt, where our senses are removed except for that of our animals. Whatever the Alpha kills must then be ingested by the person in place of the moon.”

He pauses then, gaze flickering to Nasir with a knowing stare. It has already been set in place, from the stars adorning all of Nasir’s new Alptra clothes, to the loyalty whispered amongst the peasants. They have already chosen who their moon is, who Agron’s true mate is, a leader of the people. 

“What do you mean ingested?” Pietros asks, but Nasir already knows the answer – can sense it from Agron’s tension beside him. 

“Before we leave for the hunt, someone is chosen to represent Caelestis. She or He is tied in the center of town, under the direct light of the moon and kept there as our father wolf kept her. The Alpha will leave for his hunt and bring something back, and the person must eat the heart before the rest of the Alptra – proving loyalty and power for the rest of the year.” Crixus replies, unflinching as he keeps his eyes on Nasir’s. 

“The raw heart of an animal?” Pietros’ voice drips with disgust. 

“It is not always an animal,” Duro answers quietly, “One year, our father brought back the heart of a woman – a farmer’s wife on the outskirts of our city.”

“And who ate her heart?” Pietros’ eyes grow, as Duro’s turn across the room. 

“I did.” Mira interrupts the topic, pulling her knees tightly to her chest. “Now can we discuss how we are going to kill the shit or do we need to keep discussing old fucking rituals?”

Silence falls amongst the group, each deep within their own thoughts, replaying horrors that have and have not yet come to pass. Agron knows what the ritual signifies – the end of summer and the beginning of autumn. They will begin to prepare for their journey to the castle soon, loading carts and wagons full of supplies, and then begin the trek through the mountains. He lets his gaze slide over to his husband, five months thick with child. He does not know how Nasir will fare on the journey, as it is hard and over jagged rocks and blasts of cold. 

Nasir dances a pair of violet lights above Yasmina’s head, making the little girl giggle at the magic. He can feel random pairs of eyes sliding over him, studying him with the babe. It will not be long until he has one of his own, a child to entertain with little gifts, a son or daughter to teach and love and protect. He cannot do that with Gerulf around, with threats and violence. He needs open air, space to breathe. 

“I am not opposed to my title nor the requirements that come with it. If I had, I would have run back to my father’s people long ago.” Nasir speaks up suddenly, raising his head to address the room. “I am a consort to an heir apparent, thick with his child, and have claim and right to the throne. So, friends, let us turn our attention to securing that instead of worrying far into the future.”

Spartacus regards them with a smile, pride growing as he bows his head in respect. He has been waiting for it, waiting to see Agron and Nasir rise to their titles. They are no longer boys, but grown men embracing the responsibility given to them – to be kings among men. 

“Your majesties,” Spartacus begins with a grin, laying the plan before them. 

\- - - 

Screamings and cheers go up as another thick log is thrust onto the glowing fire. Sparks twist and dance to the sky, burning bright and hot before they're chilled in the night air. The peasants scream for more, laughter and dance once more being allowed as the moon is almost full, a small sliver left to be completed come tomorrow. 

The flames shatter light across the long wooden table, shadows flickering over the faces of the royal family. Gerulf sits stoic and proper in the middle, a crown of twisted and writhing wolves wrapped around his head. To his right, Agron sits, face blank except for his relaxed scowl. Duro, to his father's left, looks regal and calm in his tunic of spun silver - a stand in incase the chosen moon fails at his requirements. Both princes are flanked on either side by their next in line - Nasir dressed completely in a long white robe, modest with the sleeves belling around his wrists and hair loose. Tove is dressed much simpler - full metal armor and a small circlet of braided bones. 

_"Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?"_ Agron murmurs, fingers warm as they press into Nasir's thigh. 

_"Only a dozen times,"_ Nasir replies, hiding his rolled eyes by glancing down at the food before him. He notices the flicker of Agron's expression, before pressing his palm on top of Agron's. _"Thank you, my king."_

 _"Are you afraid?"_ Agron asks next, surreptitiously meeting Spartacus' gaze through the flames. 

_"Are you?"_ Nasir does not need to ask the question, he can feel the perspiration on Agrons's skin. 

Of course the plan had left it up to them to pull off. Everyone has their own part, alibis and positions to be in, but the main part - the killing - had been pressed to Nasir's palm with a kiss on the forehead from Spartacus. He had clapped Agron's shoulder, sneaking out of their tent before they were to be collected for the feast.

 _"I have only killed one person,"_ Nasir does not flinch, but a wrinkle grows between hi eyebrows. _"Does this make me the same as him? Am I becoming more wolf than witch?"_

 _"No, Nasir. You will never be like him. When it is done,"_ Agron's fingers tighten around Nasir's, _"I will help you wash the blood from your hands and shoulder the burden until it does not weigh so heavily on you."_

Across the way, Mira moves amongst the peasants, whispering words. A change of hands takes place, Naevia passing her with a barely there brush of shoulders. Then through the plume of smoke, Naevia and Pietros spin around one another. Drawing close, Auctus steals a kiss from Pietros’ mouth before sliding out of view and into a tent. It’s the beginning of the end. 

_”With me?”_ Nasir asks, taking a deep breath. 

_”Forever.”_ Agron confirms, taking his cue from Spartacus with a grim nod. 

Nasir stands gracefully, cloak spread around him as he moves from behind the table. He lets his fingers trail over the backs of Duro’s and Tove’s chair, alerting them to the time. Precariously, he steps down from the platform, motioning to Heracleo whom lingers on the edges of the table. The pirate is quick to come to him, glancing at Gerulf only to find the king speaking with bowed head to his eldest son.

“What can I do for you, little prince?” Heracleo grins all devilish eyes and corrupt mouth. 

“I would propose toast to our king, but we are lacking in wine. Will you present it to him?” Nasir asks, trailing his fingers along the golden chain looped around Heracleo’s neck. Simple pleasure, easy seduction. 

“Of course!” Heracleo takes the caress, reaching out to brush his fingers over Nasir’s jaw, “And where would I find such wine?” Any other time, Nasir would reach up and break his wrist for an attempt – especially when he knows that Agron’s eyes are boring into him, but Nasir needs Heracleo to believe in the innocent request, he needs to not find any fault in it. 

“I believe they keep it in the tent over there.” Nasir points to the place that Auctus has just disappeared inside. “Hurry.”

Heracleo’s foggy mind does not seem to catch the urgency in Nasir’s voice, but he is quick to follow the request if it ends in more alcohol. He bows clumsily before turning away, having to shove through the crowds of dancing peasants. He doesn’t even recognize it when a large guard presses into his side, fingers swift and careful as he places a scroll into his belt. 

Auctus nods at Nasir, his cue to return to the table. Nasir does it as quickly as he can, pausing by where Gerulf’s and Agron’s heads are bent together, voices soft as they discuss the festival for tomorrow. Nasir makes his presence known by wrapping a hand around the back of Agron’s neck, leaning in to kiss his cheek – distracting the king once more. 

“And where have you been?” Gerulf turns dark eyes up as his son-in-law, mouth grim. 

“I went to relieve myself, wine flows heavy tonight,” Nasir lies smoothly, comforted by Agron’s thick arm around his waist, helping to fan the cloak around him and hide his body. Of course Nasir has not been able to partake in the drink in a while, instead sneakily replacing his own goblet for water at Naevia’s easy slight of hand. “I have returned and simply wanted to thank you again for restoring your faith in me and my intentions with your son.”

“Your intentions?” Gerulf leans back, raising an eyebrow. He is curious as to what this is now.

“To be a worthy mate and husband to him,” Nasir replies, smile growing until it stretches across his face – genuine pleasure. It is not a lie. “There is nothing I would not do for the well-being of this family.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gerulf nods, reaching up to pat Nasir’s smooth cheek. Through the fog of wine, he can see the glitter around Nasir’s eyes, his bruised mouth probably from heated kisses shared before ceremony. Agron has the same flecks of silver on his cheeks, his fingers smeared with it. The jealousy that bubbles inside of him is at a simmer, the longing to have it all – to be the audience to the power.

“Father,” Agron turns his adoring gaze from his husband to the man next to him, “Shall we toast this good fortune? Let the people know they can once more trust in the unity and strength of the royal line? It is a night for promises.”

Agron does it well, even if he’s never been convinced he is a good actor. It is easier with Spartacus on the outskirts of his vision, and Nasir a heavy weight on his side. Duro’s dark eyes coming into focus behind Gerulf’s thick hair. They may just yet pull this off, a plan so simple and yet weighing on all of their minds. He does not have to wonder for long though and Gerulf grins, nodding quickly. 

“Heracleo!” Gerulf greets his head of guard warmly, reaching to snatch the large barrel of wine from him, “Just in time!”

The royals watch closely as Gerulf pours himself a hefty serving, leaving his sons to supply their own. He is not concerned with sharing. Staggering to his feet, he raises his hands to silence the music, the crowd drawing close to hear him. It’s a hundred gleaming eyes in the dark, picked like stars as they stare in rapt attention to their king. 

“My good people!” Gerulf’s voice booms, “On this night, I would put fears and horrors to rest. As the moon rises so does the strength of the Alptra people! Tonight, we would celebrate not only our fortune in health and safety due to the efforts of my beloved son.”

Agron bows respectfully, palm warm and heavy on Nasir’s waist. 

“But of the pride and glory of our land. Finally, after many years of my wife’s disappearance, we have once more gained a worthy moon!”

Under Agron’s push and Gerulf’s permission, Nasir steps from behind the table and spreads his own arms, seeming as if he wants to embrace the loyal subjects below him. They all cheer loudly for him, loyalty unfailing as Nasir bows, cheeks flushed. It is a new feeling for him, to be adored such. 

“May all the glory and praise go onto our king,” Nasir turns back, bowing low to Gerulf, “Whom leads us with unfailing power, might, and strength in the times of our own weakness.”

Gerulf raises his cup, a slight bow of his head under the heavily sugared words. He is impressed by Nasir’s words, the way he has been trained. Agron has done amazing work, and perhaps with more incentive and punishment, Nasir will truly be worthy of the crown placed amongst his dark hair.

The wine is sweet as Gerulf takes a large swallow, letting the liquid sit in his mouth for a moment before finishing it, tipping the cup back. The minute the last drop hits his palate though, he tastes something bitter – something wrong. It swells his throat, his tongue a scalding weight against the roof of his mouth. He can’t seem to get the words out, a strangled cry breaking from his throat. 

“Father?” Agron turns questioning gaze to him, his own cup dropping as Gerulf begins to writhe. 

“Your majesty?” Nasir gasps, mouth dropping in horror as Gerulf’s bloodshot eyes gleaming out at him. It is not the look of a drunken man, but one that knows he has been played and played very well. It takes all of Nasir’s strength not to grin in reply.

With a mighty cough, blood begins to pour from between Gerulf’s lips and nose, the crimson splattering on Nasir’s pristine white tunic and across his cheek. He tries to scramble forward, knocking goblets and platters of food off the thick wood table as Gerulf reaches for the prince, but Nasir backpedals with a scream. He would fall from the platform completely if it weren’t for Agron’s hand wrapping around his arm, drawing him to the side and away. 

“Father?” Duro calls, trying to push Gerulf back into his seat, but the king lashes out, gurgling as more wine and blood seeps down from his beard, and strikes a blow to the center of Duro’s chest.

“Someone help him!” Tove shouts, head whipping around to look at the crowd. The peasants stare with awe and disgust, hands clasped over mouths and against chests. They do not know what to think, too frozen by the carnage to act. This is their true loyalty – their true feelings towards the king.

Nasir feels Agron’s fingers release him, press to his shoulder to shock him back into his role, and he springs into action. Nasir is up and onto the table in record time, fingers working on pushing Gerulf’s head back. Hands slick with blood, clothes completely ruined, Nasir seems to work quickly, digging his fingers into Gerulf’s throat, opening his mouth. It would appear he was doing his best effort to save his beloved father-in-law’s life. 

The small vile of vampire venom is easy to hide in the mix of red and shadows played by the fire. It’s only a small matter to tip the liquid down Gerulf’s throat. With the angle Nasir has his head tilted, the king can do nothing but swallow, gurgling his last threats into the silent air. He drops then, collapsing back against the throne with glassy eyes and still gaping mouth – the smallest of breaths leaving him, barely visible by the bubbles under his nose. 

Turning back towards Agron, towards the crowd, Nasir lets out a small and practiced sob. There is a line of blood on his cheek, down his chest, and Nasir can only imagine what he looks like to everyone – horrified and innocent. 

“The king,” Nasir makes sure to gasps, bottom lip trembling, “has been poisoned.”

It’s pandemonium then, the screams from the crowd, Spartacus rushing forward with more royal guards, someone crying loudly. Agron screams for the culprit that brought the wine, voice cracking in true horror, and Tove supplies Heracleo’s name, shoving the gasping man forward. The pirate screams his innocence, trying to twist and free himself from where Barca and Crixus have him by the arms. It all falls on deaf ears though, lost in the chaos. 

"He has a letter! A command from one of our enemies!" Auctus pulls the note from within the folds of Heracleo's clothes. 

Upon the discovery, the crowd calls for blood, screaming for execution. The mantra repeats over and over as peasants surge forward, throwing things from tables, smearing the pirate in sauces and wine. They will not be pleased until they see the end of it, the blood that the Alptra seem to always crave. Stripped of power and yet still animals. 

Spartacus raises his head, staring up at the platform where Agron and Nasir stand together, waiting for a command. There is still blood all over Nasir, Gerulf's body laying lax and huge behind them. It's not the little prince that gains Spartacus' attention though, it's the curl to Agron's lip, human teeth glinting in the moonlight. He has no choice but to allow what his people want, the rejection of it could turn the murderous hoard upon them. 

“Nasir gave me the wine! He told me to get the wine!” Heracleo screams, accent thickening as he tries to escape. “Please! It was the little witch!”

“King killer!” A woman in the crowd screams, tossing a plate towards the pirate, it hitting him squarely in the forehead, cutting the skin. 

Taking a deep breath, Agron gives the definitive nod, eyes flashing, and Spartacus must obey his king. 

Heracleo's head flies through the air, blood spurting and a new form of screaming rises. People reach for one another, coat themselves in blood and wine, and thrash for more. They are drunk on the horror of it, the easy way that death comes to them. The guards try to control the crowd, pushing them back, but it's to no avail as they call for more.

On the platform, Nasir presses his hand to Agron’s chest, curving against his side. He knew it was going to be delirious fury, people moonstruck and calling, but he hadn’t expected it to this degree. He suddenly wants to be away, far away in the comfort of their tent, fire pit cold and just the darkness and Agron against him. 

"Let us be done with this," Nasir whispers into Agron's ear, hand moving to cup his stomach. "Your child is covered in your father's blood, Agron. Have we not done enough tonight?"

Agron's arm tightens around him, leaning down to murmur into Nasir's ear. "Do you remember the rest of the plan?"

Nasir gives Agron a small nod, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he turns. He has so much to say, the acidity of it burning in the back of his throat. Knowing better though, Nasir lets the shaking of his hands go unnoticed, eyes downcast as he moves towards Gerulf. 

Agron's words, calming and soothing to the crowd fall on his deaf ears, staring at the way Gerulf's blood bubbles out from his lip. The amount of venom they gave him will put him in a sort of dreamless sleep. He'll be conscious, aware of what is going on around him, but unable to respond. He is a witness with no words.

Nasir wonders if it’s too cruel of a fate. If there was another way to do things, to fix things, but then he thinks about Gerulf’s blank face when he had forced Nasir to dance. Of the commands to provide him with a grandson. It was the constant cruelty, and when Auctus, Tove, and Barca struggle to pick up the king, intent to drag him to the medicus tent, Nasir feels no remorse – only relief. 

He follows them quickly, eyes trained to the frosting grass, breath in small white clouds of fog. It will be cold tomorrow, a bitter chill coming down from the north - the perfect weather for hunting, for death. It's warm inside the medicus tent though, the quiet groans of soldiers healing, the snoring of those who have barely survived. 

The guards set Gerulf on a cot far from the rest, hidden by thick curtains and darkness. It is a place for his position, but also for hiding - for the secrecy of their act. Nasir finds himself smothered with it, haunted by the feeling of Gerulf's blood splattering on his face, his gasping fear. 

"Leave us," Nasir mumurs, more to himself than to the men idling nearby. 

Barca and Auctus leave silently, but Tove lingers, wrapping his fingers around Nasir's arm. He waits until the prince looks up at him, shadows playing over Nasir's face. 

"Remember who he is, Nasir." Tove warns lowly, "Until they put that crown on your head, he is still king."

"You do not have to remind me," Nasir murmurs, slipping free from Tove's hold, "I know perfectly well who he is."

He doesn't bother to watch Tove leave, knows when he's gone by the soft swish of the door. Nasir moves then, sliding over to basin and pitcher in the corner, filling it before taking it over to Gerulf's side. He wets the rag nearby, pressing it to the first streak of blood on Gerulf's cheek then begins to speak. 

"You must be very angry with us," Nasir murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, "to fool a king such as yourself. It must seem impossible to you. You forget though, that I am in the craft of fooling men - making them believe whatever it is that they want."

Nasir's eyes meet Gerulf's. The king cannot move anything on his body but his gaze, but it still seethes - heat seeming to only have grow due to his poisoning. 

"When Agron first left, I couldn't figure out your angle. What you wanted from me. You wanted me to dance. You wanted me to kneel. You wanted me naked begging for salvation. And why? What had I done but exactly what you had already asked for? I married your son. I let him fuck me. I was doing my duty, as you so eloquently put." 

Nasir continues to drag the cloth down Gerulf's jaw, pausing for a breath. 

"Your mother told me about the prophecy. How you were so upset that Agron wasn't the one, wasn't this king amongst kings?" Nasir laughs a little. "But you weren't satisfied to not be chosen. Had to have me, no matter the cost. You couldn't take me as your bride though. Isolde has not been proven to be dead. So you, in your infinite wisdom, bought me for your son - to have a worthy heir.

I'm not mad about it. I understand, wanting all that power for your family line, to continue on your blood."

Nasir wipes a thick line of blood from under Gerulf's nose, wringing out the rag until the water is dark pink.

"What I couldn’t figure out is why you were so happy to have me have anyone's child. You started the betting, Sedullus, Heracleo, Castus. They all were in on it. But you were smarter than your own game. It made sense to have everyone try, to give you money, make you stronger. Loyalty bought by making them believe you were a fair and caring man – wanted them to have what they wanted. You promised them each something if they were the ones to get me pregnant.

You had no intention of letting them have me though. You just wanted to keep them occupied, happy and loyal to you. You knew that I would not betray Agron's trust unless I was forced, so you presented the task to Duro. Duro, whose jealousy nearly cost me my life. You must know what your sons have done to each other, the way Duro found refuge under Agron."

Nasir leans forward then, stroking his fingers gently over Gerulf's temple, brushing his hair back from his face. The king's eyes bore up at him, glittering faintly in the light. He is furious. 

"You could not have me. Your people would turn against you. They loved your wife. She gave you sons. You did not need more. Agron would surely kill his competition, but a grandson - someone you could start over with - a prophesied savior. You could not pass up the opportunity. 

You let the vampires come, trading Duro’s life for Agron’s – thinking that I would be pregnant by the time it all happened. Yet, I wasn’t. I continued to sit by your son, barren, and you were running out of time. 

You did not expect him to come back though. You didn't realize that Agron would survive. You hoped that I would fall pregnant while Agron was away and be able to be done with me - turning a child into an orphan. If it were Duro's, it would be your responsibility and you could do with it what you wanted."

Nasir sighs then, leaning back to slip off the table. With the king clean, there is nothing left for Nasir to do but pull the blankets up over him, tucking the king into his bed. 

"Do not blame yourself too much, Gerulf, for the way that things have turned out." Nasir faces away from the king, working on the small pearl buttons on the front of his tunic. "You are only a man."

Gerulf does not make a sound, but it seems his eyes open even wider, just a fraction when Nasir turns back – letting the tunic lay loose and open around his stomach. 

“I have been with child this whole time, your majesty.”

Nasir comes to him then, eyes glowing a supernatural gold, magic crackling under his hands. 

“I will have this baby, this prince or princess, and you will never be able to touch it. It will never know you. It will only know love and safety and magic. I will teach it to dance and how to pull things from its mind and make them real. It will never know your wrath or your horror. I will never speak your name, and like this summer, you will fade into nothing but a distant memory easily dismissed from mind until you are not there at all.”

Nasir breathes the words hot and quick against Gerulf’s ear, promising himself that they will be true – everyone. 

“May you rot here until the day that you slip into death.”

He turns then, without a backwards glance, and leaves the tent; deaf to Gerulf’s silent screams. 

\- - - 

Weariness sinks deep into Agron’s bones, making the weight of his body seem ten-fold as he half stomps, half stumbles into the tent. The hour is late, stars glittering in the sky and the nearly full moon slowly sliding towards the horizon. The peasants are finally calm, slinking back into their own rooms, their own fury tempered down by the promises Agron has made. Tomorrow, they will go through with the ceremony, the Moon Festival, and everything will once again be right – even without the looming presence of their king. 

Agron is not surprised to find Nasir awake, standing still and silent by the side of the tub. He has wrapped himself once more in his sheer, emerald robe - the one he wore on their first night together in this room - and his hand is outstretched over the beaten copper, water droplets clinging to his fingertips before sliding into the filling basin below. Upon Agron's entrance, the water speeds up - urged on by their joint powers.

The outline of his body is clear through the fabric, stomach extended into a wide curve, usually flat chest slightly denser, thicker as it prepares for the child it holds within. Nasir has not bothered to remove the necklaces around him, gold chains looped over one another down until they pool on the top of his stomach. His long hair has been brushed back, waves down his back, and Agron suddenly gets the strong urge to wrap his fingers in it, pull Nasir closer to look at his beautiful face. 

"Is everything settled?" Nasir asks, not lifting his head from staring into the water. He has let it go placid, hand once more at his side.

"Yes, everything is fine." Agron moves over to Nasir, wrapping his arms slowly around his waist. His hands fit perfectly over Nasir's bump, rubbing gently along the darker line down it. There is something mystical and almost revered about Nasir like this, his power shimmering just below the surface. Agron has had a taste of it in full force, drown in Nasir’s magic, and yet he always thirsts for more – always wants whatever Nasir is willing and able to give him. 

Nasir leans his head back against Agron's shoulder, resting his forehead on the long curve of Agron's neck. It's comforting, the familiar scent of him, the press of Agron's large arms around Nasir, holding him steady. Even with Nasir’s ever changing body, he still is overwhelmed by Agron – his size and weight a constant reminder that Nasir is safe here. 

"I have washed my hands so many times," Nasir whispers, breath hot and damp, "and yet I can't seem to get the blood off of them."

Agron glances down to see what Nasir said is true. The knuckles on Nasir's right hand are red, the skin streaked with pale nail marks, yet crimson still lingers around the fingernails, embedded underneath. Agron takes the digits in between his own, raising them to his mouth to gently kiss them. 

"Let me aid you." 

Pressing a tender kiss to the side of Nasir's neck, Agron slips his hands over Nasir's shoulders, easing the robe down his arms. He tracks the movement with his fingertips, caressing down over Nasir's smooth skin, memorizing it all over again. The fabric pools quietly to the floor in a shimmer of emerald and sea green, forgotten as Agron's sucking kisses ease down Nasir's shoulder.

Agron removes his own clothes just as easily, wrapping a hand around Nasir's elbow to help him into the tub. The water welcomes him, hiding his legs and stomach from view, but reflecting the candlelight against the bronze skin. It’s like a memory from a dream, Nasir’s dark eyes against the gold, staring up as Agron climbs in behind him, settles Nasir’s back against his chest. 

“We have killed two men today,” Nasir does not turn his head, instead wraps Agron’s palms over the back of his own, squeezing their fingers together. “One being your father, and yet you comfort me like I have lost something.”

“You have,” Agron kisses Nasir’s ear, murmuring into it so as to not break the quiet illusion around them. “A loss of innocence. Your first, truly planned murder. It must weigh heavy on you.”

“It does,” Nasir agrees, turning his head to face his husband, “I saw him laid there upon cot, covered in his own blood, but I –“

“But what?” Agron traces his knuckles down Nasir’s jaw, urging him on. 

“Do not think me a monster for saying this,” Nasir’s eyebrows furrow as he lets out a shocked, guilty laugh, struggling to raise his eyes back up. “But I was not sorry, nor was I sad or regretful. I was relieved.”

Agron studies Nasir’s face, conflicted and wrinkled in misunderstanding, and yet Agron has never felt an affection like this. He seals his lips firmly to Nasir’s, coaxing his mouth open with tiny licks until Nasir falls open to him, moaning as Agron’s tongue moves to taste him. It is a languid kiss, more mapping and caressing than harsh bites or command, and yet Agron cannot understand why they ever stop kissing, why they are ever apart to begin with. 

“Gerulf is a cruel man, my love,” Agron pants against Nasir’s slick mouth, resting his forehead against him, “He deserves his fate. We are responsible for the one growing inside of you, and the only crime we have committed by poisoning my father is that we love our child more than he ever loved his.”

“A horrible crime,” Nasir murmurs, no conviction behind it. 

Agron hides his grin in another kiss, wet fingers trailing down through Nasir’s hair, coaxing him onto his side so that Agron can stroke along his ribs. He will never tire of the feeling of Nasir’s skin, his weight pressing to Agron’s front, the flutter of tiny kicks against his own abdomen as Nasir’s stomach moves to rest against it. Soon, the baby will not be hidden under Nasir’s protection though, and Agron will be able to kiss its small feet, to hear it's laughter, to know that is beloved and safe. 

"The elders will be coming soon," Nasir murmurs, pulling back to gasp against Agron's cheek. "Spartacus wanted me to remind you."

"Let them wait to give us more crowns and duties," Agron laps at Nasir's bottom lip, nipping at it gently, "I would rather us spend few moments of solitude celebrating our new freedom before it is taken from us."

Nasir's reply is lost as Agron kisses him again, hands disappearing below the water. He eases his fingertips along the thick cut of Nasir’s hip, hidden by the weight of the child, before sliding in further, parting Nasir’s legs. The water has relaxed him, turning once tensed muscles into soft and ply. It’s easy for Agron to push Nasir’s hips forward with his own, thumb pressed to Nasir’s opening. 

Gasping wetly against his cheek, Nasir spreads his legs further, easing around until his hands rest securely on Agron’s broad shoulder. It’s easier with both of them sitting for Nasir to reach Agron’s mouth, bite against it as Agron’s hands work between them, parting Nasir’s open and easing the way with the thick oil already floating in the water. 

Agron takes his time, eases one finger fully into him and then adding in another, grinning into Nasir’s mouth when he feels his cock jump against the long curve of his stomach. Even pregnant, Nasir seems insatiable when it comes to Agron. He wants it now, murmuring such as he falls back, knuckles white where they grip the sides of the tub. 

“Fuck,” Agron groans, caressing his hand up over Nasir’s ass, fingers denting the skin when he eases him forward. 

He coaxes Nasir into riding his hand, mouth biting sharp and wet kisses on his neck – marking him. In the back of his mind, Agron knows he should probably refrain. They both will be nearly naked tomorrow for the festivities and any dark marks on Nasir’s skin will not be overlooked. Agron can’t help it though, having missed the way the flesh bruises violent shades of red and purple under his mouth, knowing that everyone who sees them will know and remember that Nasir is Agron’s and Agron has no intention of letting him go. 

“I don’t think I’m ever going to let you not be pregnant,” Agron murmurs, slipping his fingers from within Nasir to steady his hips. “I’m too addicted to it. The way you look – The way you smell. I want to fill you over and over again, making you always make you this way.”

“You say that,” Nasir gasps, teasing his nails through Agron’s hair, trying to distract himself from the emptiness he feels at Agron having moved his hands, “but I am only going to get bigger, grumpier, until you won’t be able to fuck me anymore.”

Agron grins at that, pulling back to stare up at Nasir as he says his reply. “You know you’re always going to beg for my cock, and I am always going to want to be inside of you. It’s too good, too fucking perfect the way you grip me, body made for mine. You can’t deny that, the building heat everytime we look at each other. You wear it on your face, the emptiness when I am not there to fill you up.”

“Then get in me,” Nasir grinds down on the length of Agron’s cock, letting the tip catch on his rim, “and remind me why I scream your name every time.”

Agron doesn’t need any more prompting, keeping his cock steady with one hand as he guides Nasir down with the other, letting him go slow, accounting for the added weight. It helps the gravity though, Agron nudging deeper and deeper as Nasir’s jaw drops, eyes tightly shut as he finally bottoms out with a sharp exhale. They sit poised like that for a moment, both drowning in sensation and the need for more. 

Agron can feel the tremble in Nasir’s thighs, muscles spasming as he tries to calm his racing heart. Raking his nails sharply down the back of Agron’s shoulder, Nasir’s eyes flutter open, locking sharply with Agron’s. There are flames roaming over his shoulders, slipping down his arms onto Agron’s skin. It feels different this time, Agron nearly mortal – completely when the sun rises. He can’t feel the connection, can’t look into Nasir’s mind and whisper to him, but he feels the passion – the lust that drips from every inch of Nasir, and he groans again, completely overwhelmed. 

“My king,” Nasir whimpers, grinding his hips down in tight figure eights, not having the strength or the room to really drop down, “ _Agron_.”

“What?” Agron asks breathily, leaning into Nasir’s space, “Tell me Nasir. Tell me what you want.”

“Please.” Nasir’s eyelashes flutter, vines curling down above him to hang with tiny white flowers, heavy with the scent. “I can’t – I need you to move.”

Agron slides his hands from the water up over Nasir’s back, soothing his spine as he readjusts his grip, one palm hot on Nasir’s hip and the other on his shoulder, pushing him back to yank him back down. It shoves breathy little gasps out of his husband, Nasir tipping his head back. The water sloshes around them, but Agron uses it to his advantage, grounding his feet on the bottom of the tub and thrusting up, waiting until Nasir gives a tiny cry to keep his angle – press rough and hard against the bundle of nerves inside of him that makes Nasir come undone. 

His magic seems to be unable to focus, out of use for so long, so it sheds itself. Plants and floral burst into life around them, flames spiraling amongst the petals to drip liquid gold on the floor. It coats them both only to dissolve in the water, the whole tent infused by the scent of burning wood and ripe flora. 

Slipping his fingers up into Nasir’s hair, Agron grips the strands tightly and pulls Nasir forward, smashing their mouths together in a tangle of caught breath and sharp teeth. He doesn’t want to ever stop this, Nasir’s cock leaking against his stomach, trailing white strands into the murky water. The tension building in Agron’s spine, suffocating and sharp. Even the tangled way Nasir’s hair sticks to his cheeks, clings to Agron’s chest. They have ceased to be separate, morphing into this tumbling, suffocating entity – united. 

Nasir holds onto Agron’s jaw, keeps his mouth open for his tongue, pants his breath and then scream as his orgasm hits him. It’s too fast, too sharp, a twisting of his spine that has his writhing, nearly falling if it weren’t for Agron’s sure arms around him. It’s been too long though, too many cold nights spent apart, and Nasir does not feel guilty for submitting to the pleasure – having missed the sharp taste on his tongue. 

A million white star flowers burst across the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Their white petals tinged by shimmering yellow. Vines interlock across the top, a chandelier of exotic leaves and ropes poised above the fire pit. It’s the most intricate and lovely showing of Nasir’s magic yet – equisetic love and power owed all to the man between his legs. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” Agron’s fingers brush his hair back, kissing Nasir again and again. “I don’t understand how you can be mine.”

“I am.” Nasir reassures, gasping as Agron’s hands turn sharper – not supernaturally, but that of a desperate man battling against slick oil and gravity. “I am all for you.”

It’s the words, the solemn and truthful vow that does it for him. Agron thrusts again and again and again, dizzying shifts of his hips and then nothing – blinding white and the knowledge that Agron is certain his spine has disconnected from his body. It’s strange, reaching completion when he’s at his weakest, and yet the pleasure of it, burning hot and quick, seems to only grow. It comes in waves and waves, a sharp growl from his lips that is entirely human.

Agron knows his fingers are bruising Nasir’s thighs, ten red lines on his skin that will turn violet tomorrow. Nasir doesn’t seem to mind though, sat up right only by his half lean on the side of the tub, eyes closed as he trembles. Agron can see the fatigue, the exhaustion pulling Nasir’s eyelids heavy and his limbs weak. 

“Never tire of me,” Agron begs, pulling Nasir as close to him as he can, cradling him easily as he pulls out. “Stay beside me forever. I do not think I could bear the thought of you not being here.”

Nasir does not answer with words, raising his head just slightly to kiss the underside of Agron’s jaw. In time, he will regain enough strength to make promises, to put Agron’s mind at ease, but now – in the quiet and safety of their kingdom – the press of their skin is enough.


End file.
